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_______________
The dorm is too loud for how late it is.
Someone's laughing in the living room and it’s probably Taehyung, because his laugh carries, loud and bright and impossible to ignore. Hoseok is definitely egging him on, the two of them feeding off each other while Yoongi complains half-heartedly from somewhere nearby, hiding his amused smile behind a hand.
It should be annoying by now.
But it isn't.
It's familiar. Grounding. Home when home feels very far away.
Jeongguk is exhausted enough that even this noise starts to feel like something to lean on.
He pushes his bedroom door open with his shoulder, barely registering the mess of clothes on the floor or the faint glow of the bedside lamp. His gym bag slips from his hand and lands with a dull thud, but he doesn't bother picking it up. His muscles ache in that deep, settled in a way that means he's pushed himself exactly hard enough today and all he really wants is to sleep.
But then–
"Yo."
Jeongguk freezes.
There's a body on his bed.
And not just a body. A very specific one, with a mop of pink hair gone slightly frizzy at the edges.
Jimin doesn't even look up from his phone, sprawled across Jeongguk's mattress like he owns it, one leg hanging off the side, cheeks still flushed from a hot shower. He's wearing an oversized shirt that might actually be Jeongguk's, but Jeongguk has long stopped keeping track of whose clothes are whose.
Jeongguk exhales slowly. "Why are you in my room?"
Jimin hums, scrolling. "Your door was open."
"That's not an invitation."
"It kind of is."
"It's not."
Jimin finally glances up, eyes soft but unimpressed. "Then start locking it."
Jeongguk stares at him for a second, trying really really hard to feel annoyed.
He fails.
Because this is normal. It's always been normal. Jimin has been appearing in his space unannounced since they were teenagers sharing a cramped dorm with too many bodies and not enough beds.
He steps further into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. The noise from the living room dulls slightly, but it's still there, always present, always like a reminder that they're never really alone. Not anymore. Not for a long time.
"Hyung," Jeongguk says, toeing off his shoes, "I need to sleep."
"Then sleep."
"You're on my bed."
Jimin shifts just enough to make room, patting the space beside him like it's obvious. "There. Problem solved."
Jeongguk huffs a quiet laugh under his breath, running a hand through his hair. It's still damp from practice, sticking up in odd directions. He should shower. He should do a lot of things.
There's no point arguing with Jimin. There's no point acting like he doesn't enjoy this easy affection, being doted on, being someone's person in a world full of just people.
He changes quickly, not bothering to leave the room, not bothering to pretend like privacy is still a thing that exists within these dorms. That particular luxury disappeared somewhere around their second year. Jimin doesn't even look up again, attention already back on his phone, completely at ease.
Jeongguk climbs onto the bed.
The mattress dips under his weight. Jimin shifts automatically to make space, pulling his leg up, adjusting without thinking, moving to his side of the bed.
HIs side of the bed.
Jeongguk doesn't know when it became that, exactly. Sometime between debut and now, between the sleepless nights and the early morning schedules.
The whole routine is like an instinct.
Like it's one of their exhausting choreographies, except this practiced act doesn't take all that much effort. Second nature might be a better word.
For a while, neither of them says anything.
Jeongguk stares at the ceiling, listening to the distant noise gradually quieten down through the night. Someone turns off the living room lights. Footsteps pad down the hallway. A door closes. The soft tap of Jimin's fingers against his phone continues, consistent and rhythmic, alongside the quiet rise and fall of his breathing.
It's peaceful in a way nothing else is.
Peaceful in a way Jeongguk has learned not to expect anymore.
"Hyung," Jeongguk says eventually.
"Mmm?"
"Eat today?"
Jimin pauses just for a second.
Then–
"Yeah."
It's said too quickly for Jeongguk's liking. Too smooth. Too rehearsed.
Jeongguk turns his head slightly, studying him. Jimin's face is half-lit by his phone screen, shadows pooling under his eyes that concealer hides during the day but never quite erases. "What did you eat?"
"Ate with staff earlier."
"What did you eat?"
Jimin sighs, dramatic, like he's being interrogated. "Why are you like this?"
"Because you lie."
"I don't—"
"You do."
Silence stretches between them, this time not peaceful.
Jimin doesn't look at him. Doesn't answer. His thumb keeps scrolling. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
And that's answer enough for Jeongguk, unfortunately.
They find themselves in the dimly lit kitchen.
The dorm is mostly quiet now, save for the distant buzzing of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of old pipes and the distant humming from Namjoon’s room. Jeongguk doesn't turn on the overhead light, just the small lamp above the stove, enough to see by without waking anyone.
Leftover takeout sits on the counter. Jeongguk warms it up and sets the container on the dining table, sliding chopsticks next to it.
"Let's eat."
"I said I already—"
"Hyung."
Jimin finally looks at him, for the first time since Jeongguk got home.
There's something sharp in his expression. Defensive. Tired in a way that goes deeper than lack of sleep or exhaustion from practice. It's the same look Jeongguk has been seeing more and more often lately— on Jimin, on all of them, sometimes when he catches his own reflection in the practice room mirrors.
Who are we becoming? he thinks to himslef sometimes, late at night, when the adrenaline fades and all that's left is the quiet and the exhausted faces of his friends stamped behind his eyes.
He doesn't say that. He never says that.
"I'm not hungry," Jimin says.
Jeongguk doesn't try to argue again.
He just opens the container, picks up the chopsticks, and takes a bite.
And another.
And another.
He doesn't look at Jimin while he eats, keeping his eyes focused on the food. Doesn't make a big deal out of it. Doesn't say anything else.
Just eats.
A minute passes.
Maybe two.
Then
"...give me that."
Jeongguk hands it over immediately.
No comment. No reaction. No I told you so.
Jimin takes the chopsticks, sits up straighter, and starts eating.
Jeongguk watches him from across the table, something in his chest loosening slightly. That's how it always works with Jimin. Not pushing too hard. Not saying too much. Somehow just enough.
Always enough.
"You're annoying," Jimin mutters between bites, but his shoulders have dropped from where they were hovering near his ears.
Jeongguk shrugs. "You're welcome."
Jimin huffs, but there's no real bite to it. "You act like my mom."
"Someone has to feed our little Jiminie."
Jimin snorts, shaking his head, and for a moment he looks younger— like the trainee who used to cuddle up next to Jeongguk on their tiny bunk beds because “Busan Bros Must Stick Together, Jeongguk-ah”.
"Maybe you should've been the hyung."
Jeongguk smiles a little, small and private. "Nah. You're a pretty good hyung."
Jimin's chopsticks pause for just a fraction of a second.
He doesn't say anything. But his ears go slightly pink.
Jimin finishes most of the food, leaving a little behind like he always does, and sets the dishes in the sink for the unfortunate soul on dishwashing duty tomorrow.
They find themselves back in the dark of Jeongguk's room.
Jeongguk lies back down, the mattress sighing beneath him.
A few seconds later, Jimin does too.
Closer this time.
Not touching. Not quite.
But it's okay, because it's still close enough that Jeongguk can feel the warmth of him. That's enough, for now.
"Jeongguk-ah."
"Hmm?"
"...are you tired?"
It's a stupid question.
They're always tired. Tired in their bones. Tired in a way that sleep doesn't fix, because the thing draining them isn't physical— or not just physical. It's the cameras and the expectations and the way every move they make gets dissected and analyzed.
It's 2017. They're everywhere— airports, stages, interviews, award shows, with cameras flashing, with people screaming their names like they belong to them, like loving them means owning them.
There's no space to think.
No space to breathe.
No space to just be.
Except here, in the dark, in the quiet, in this little corner carved out of the mess of everything.
Jeongguk lets out a quiet breath. "Yeah."
"Me too."
A pause.
"...it's getting worse."
Jeongguk doesn't ask what he means.
He knows.
He knows because he feels it too— the pressure building, the stakes rising, the way everyone keeps telling them this is what you wanted as if wanting something means you can't also be crushed by it.
They won the Billboard award. They're selling out stadiums. Everyone keeps calling it a miracle, a fairy tale, a dream come true.
And it is. It really is and he knows that.
But dreams don't tell you about the cost.
Jeongguk turns his head slightly. He can't really make out Jimin's face in the dark, but he can tell Jimin is staring at the ceiling, eyes distant, like he's somewhere else entirely. It's a look Jeongguk has gotten familiar with over the years, after all.
"Hyung."
"Hmm?"
"You're doing good."
Jimin lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds hollow. Hollow in a way that makes Jeongguk's chest ache. "You don't have to keep saying that."
"I mean it."
"You always say that."
"Because it's true."
Jimin finally turns to look at him.
For a second, neither of them speaks.
There's something in Jimin's expression— something soft, something searching, something that looks almost like fear but isn't quite. Like he's standing at the edge of something and doesn't know if he wants to jump.
"...you think so?"
Jeongguk nods, without hesitation. "Yeah."
Jimin studies him like he's trying to decide whether to believe him, whether to let himself be held by the words even a little.
Then he sighs, turning back to the ceiling.
"...okay."
He doesn't say thank you. He doesn't need to
The dorm is quiet after the long flight home— turbulent fan interactions at the airport still ringing in their ears, exhaustion seeped into every crevice of their bodies. Everyone else has gone to bed, the chaos of the day settling into something softer, more manageable.
Jimin is next to him again.
Jeongguk can't remember the last time he wasn't.
They stumble through the door together, drop their bags in the same corner, drift toward the same room without discussion. It's automatic now’ the way they move in tandem, in front of cameras and away from them, always orbiting each other like something neither of them knows how to stop.
Concert ran late last night and the flight home was arduous to say the least. Their bodies are still humming with it— the music, the exhaustion, the weight of getting it right.
In the quiet, there’s a a familiar ache in his muscles and the familiar fluttering in his heart.
It’s the way Jimin gravitates toward him when the lights go down and nobody's watching anymore.
In the dark of Jeongguk's room, practically Jimin's room too, now, though neither of them has said it; they don't talk. They don't need to. Jimin's clothes have migrated here gradually, piece by piece, a charger that stays plugged in by the bed. His presence has become constant, woven into the walls like something permanent.
Jeongguk can't bring himself to mind.
Not when Jimin crawls into bed beside him, close enough that their shoulders press together. Not when Jimin's hand finds his under the blanket, fingers curling loosely. Not when Jimin exhales a long and slow breath and finally, finally stops holding himself so tight.
Jeongguk feels it in his own chest when Jimin relaxes. The loosening. The letting go.
They're supposed to be individuals. Separate people with separate lives. But somewhere along the way the lines seem to have blurred. Jeongguk doesn't know where he ends and Jimin begins anymore.
Maybe he never did.
Jimin shifts, turning onto his side, pressing his face into the curve of Jeongguk's shoulder. His breathing is uneven at first, still carrying the day, the airport, the thousands of hands reaching for them. But it steadies slowly, matched to the rhythm of Jeongguk's heartbeat.
They don't speak.
They never need to.
Jeongguk wraps an arm around him, pulling him closer, and feels Jimin melt into the embrace like he's been waiting for permission. Like this is the only place he knows how to land.
Outside, the world is still loud. Still hungry. Still wanting pieces of them they can't afford to give.
But in this small room, this narrow bed there's nothing to give. No performance. No cameras.
Just them. Together, like always.
_______________
The interview set is washed in soft white light, everything curated and careful— the pastel backdrop, the perfectly arranged cushions, the water bottles placed at precise intervals. Jeongguk sits at one end of the curved sofa. Jimin sits at the other.
Seven people on a couch designed for five.
It's not uncomfortable. Not really.
The host laughs at something Taehyung says. Namjoon answers a question about the album with practiced ease. Jeongguk keeps his hands in his lap, thumbs pressing into his palms, and doesn't look to his left.
He doesn't need to look.
He knows where Jimin is. Knows the exact distance: fifteen feet of velvet and careful staging. Knows that if he turned his head just slightly, he'd catch Jimin watching the interviewer with that polite, distant smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
The company has been clear without being cruel. A sudden shift in seating, in stage directions, in everything, really. Different seats. Different framing. Less of the two of you together in the final edit.
Jeongguk has watched the Bangtan Bombs from last few month— the way his own arm gets cut out of frame, the way Jimin's laugh is muted when it follows something Jeongguk said. Small edits. Surgical. The kind of thing most fans wouldn't notice.
They noticed anyway.
They always notice.
Seokjin tells a joke. Everyone laughs. Jeongguk laughs too, on cue, and lets his gaze drift across the room for just a second.
Jimin is already looking at him.
Their eyes meet.
Nothing passes between them, nothing visible, nothing the cameras could catch. Just a blink. A breath. A fraction of a second where something unspoken settles in Jeongguk's chest like a stone.
I know, Jimin's eyes say.
I know too, Jeongguk answers.
Then they both look away.
The interview continues. Questions about choreography, about favorite songs, about touring. Jeongguk answers when spoken to, voice steady, smile in place. He doesn't glance at Jimin again. Doesn't let his body lean in that direction. Doesn't give the editors anything to cut.
That's the thing about being watched— you learn to perform even when you're not on stage.
The van ride back to the dorm is quiet.
Staff up front, half-asleep. The city lights smear across the windows in streaks of neon and shadow. Everyone is scattered across the seats— Hoseok with his headphones on, Yoongi already dozing, Taehyung staring at his phone.
Jeongguk doesn't ask.
He just moves.
Slides into the seat next to Jimin like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like they haven't spent the past hour pretending and smiling too politely on a stiff couch. Like fifteen feet of velvet never existed at all.
Jimin doesn't react.
He doesn't have to.
His hand finds Jeongguk's in the dark of the van, fingers threading together, resting on the seat between them like it belongs there.
Nobody looks. Nobody comments.
This part isn't for the cameras. Isn't for the editors. Isn't for anyone but them– this quiet part, this wordless gravity that pulls them back together the moment the spotlight goes dark.
Jeongguk leans his head against Jimin's shoulder.
Jimin's thumb moves, just once, across his knuckles.
They don't talk about the interview. Don't talk about the seating chart or the editing or the way they keep trying to make space where there isn't any. There's nothing to say. They both know the rules.
They both know they'll break them anyway.
Away from cameras, away from stages, away from anyone who might be watching—they cling. Shoulders pressed together in vans. Hands tangled under tables. Bodies finding each other in sleep without conscious thought.
It's not a choice anymore.
It's just what they do.
The van pulls up to the dorm. The others start gathering their things.
They walk inside separately.
Upstairs, behind a closed door, Jimin finds him again.
He always does.
_______________
2021 is different.
Not in the obvious way— though that's there too. The world shifted somewhere, pulled apart by something no one could see or touch. Crowds disappeared. Tours stopped. The roar of thousands became the hush of empty stadiums, and for the first time since debut, they had nowhere to go.
But the real difference is quieter.
More personal.
They're not kids anymore.
They each have their own apartments now. Their own schedules. Their own lives.
Jeongguk doesn't notice the distance at first.
That's the problem.
If it had been obvious— if Jimin had stopped replying, stopped showing up, stopped being there— then maybe Jeongguk could have named it. Could have done something about it. Could have fought against it. Could have fixed it.
But it isn't like that at all.
It's quieter. Softer. Almost polite.
Jimin still answers his texts. Still laughs at his jokes during group calls. Still shows up to practice, to recordings, to the occasional dinners together.
But he doesn't show up here anymore.
The last time Jimin came over was... Jeongguk actually doesn't remember. Weeks, maybe. A month. Time has lost its shape, days bleeding into each other without the landmarks of tours and comebacks and airport terminals.
What he does remember is how it used to feel— Jimin's weight beside him in bed, the warmth of someone else breathing in the dark, the way silence between them was never empty. Now his apartment is always empty. Too clean. Too quiet. Everything always exactly where he leaves it.
When he gets home, the sun has already set.
Home isn't the dorm anymore, and that alone still feels strange. The place is too big for one person. The kitchen is too clean. The couch is too wide.
He drops his keys on the counter and stands there for a moment, staring at nothing.
There's no one on his couch.
No light already on in his bedroom.
No voice calling out, "You're late," in that half-annoyed, half-relieved tone that used to greet him every single night.
Just silence.
Jeongguk picks up his phone.
"Hyung, are you still coming over tonight?"
There's a pause on the other end of the call. Not long enough to be strange, but long enough that Jeongguk notices.
"...I don't think I can today."
Jeongguk leans back against his couch, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. He's still in his jacket. Still has his shoes on. He hasn't bothered turning on any lights, so the room is dark except for the glow of the city through the window.
"Why not? You said you didn't have anything."
"I didn't earlier, but something came up."
"What?"
Jimin hesitates. Then laughs lightly—a sound that used to be easy and now sounds like effort. "Why are you interrogating me?"
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I just asked what."
Another pause.
"...just stuff."
Jeongguk waits for more. For an explanation. For an invitation to push.
But Jimin doesn't offer anything else.
And Jeongguk is tired, so he lets it go.
"Alright. Tomorrow then?"
"...yeah. Tomorrow."
Tomorrow doesn't happen.
Jeongguk doesn't call again that week.
Neither does Jimin.
It isn't a fight. There's nothing to fight about. They're just not orbiting anymore. The gravity that used to pull them together has weakened, replaced by separate apartments and separate schedules and a world that stopped demanding they be in the same place at the same time.
Space, Jeongguk is learning, has a way of growing when you're not looking.
One day you're sharing a bed. The next, you're alone in an apartment that doesn't feel like home, wondering when exactly you stopped being the person someone couldn't stay away from.
His phone buzzes.
A text from Jimin.
Jimin
Sorry about tomorrow. Rain check?
Jeongguk stares at it for a long time.
Then he types back:
Jeongguk
Yeah. No worries.
He means it. Or he wants to mean it. He's not sure anymore.
Jeongguk puts his phone down and doesn't pick it up again.
Tomorrow will come. Tomorrow will pass.
And maybe Jimin will show up. But Jeongguk has stopped holding his breath.
_______________
It's late when he decides to go over.
He doesn't think too hard about it. If he does, he'll talk himself out of it, his brain will come up with a hundred reasons why showing up unannounced is a bad idea, why the distance is probably fine, why he should just stay home and play games and pretend he doesn't notice anything has changed.
So he doesn't think. He just grabs his jacket, his keys, his phone, and walks out the door before his brain can catch up with his feet.
Jimin's place isn't far. A twenty-minute walk through streets that are slowly waking back up, post-quarantine Seoul stretching its limbs after too long of holding still. The air is different now but something between them hasn't quite caught up. It's been months of careful steps, of learning how to exist in the same room without gravitating toward each other like they used to. Months of pretending the space feels natural when it really doesn't.
Jeongguk's been here enough times that the building feels familiar in a way his own apartment still doesn't. The creaky elevator that always sounds like it's dying despite the apartment building being so well-maintained and expensive. The long hallway with the bright light at the end. The door he's walked through a hundred times without knocking, back when not knocking was just something he did, not something he had to think about.
He doesn't knock tonight either.
The key code hasn't changed suprisingly. Jeongguk types it in— his own birthday being the code for whatever reason, he tries not to dwell on it too much — and steps inside.
The apartment is dim. Quiet. A jacket draped over a chair. Dishes in the sink. A half-empty glass of water on the coffee table. Signs of life, just not him. The air smells faintly of whatever candle Jimin has been burning lately— something woody and warm, nothing like the fruity ones he used to hoard in the dorm.
Jeongguk toes off his shoes and lines them up neatly by the door, because Jimin hates when people leave their shoes scattered. He knows this. He knows a lot of things about Jimin that he probably shouldn't anymore— the way he takes his coffee, the way he sleeps on his left side, the way he hums when he's concentrating. Knowledge that used to feel like intimacy now feels like something closer to memory.
But still, he doesn't overthink it. Doesn't analyze what it means that he still knows the code, that he still feels entitled to this space, that his body relaxes the moment he steps inside like it's been waiting all day to exhale.
He just waits.
The couch is soft, familiar in a way that makes his chest ache. He sinks into it, lets his head fall back against the cushions, and tells himself he'll stay awake.
He doesn't.
Footsteps wake him.
The easy rhythm of someone moving through their own space, unaware they're not alone. The kind of footsteps that belong to someone who feels safe in their own home.
Jeongguk blinks awake slowly, disoriented. For a moment, he doesn't remember where he is. The ceiling is wrong— too high, too white. The couch is too soft. The silence is too complete.
Then it comes back to him.
Jimin's apartment. The key code. The waiting.
He looks up groggily, rubbing at his eyes, and there he is.
Jimin is walking down the hallway, and for a moment— just a moment— Jeongguk forgets why he came. Forgets the distance. Forgets the missed calls and the cancelled plans and the way Jimin's many many "tomorrow’s" never seemed to arrive. Forgets everything except the shape of him, the way he moves through the world like he's made of something lighter than the rest of them.
Jimin looks different.
His hair is styled, soft but neat, swept back from his forehead in a way that makes him look younger and older at the same time. He's wearing something nicer than sweatpants, which is practically a formal event by Jimin standards— dark pants, a loose button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows. There's a faint scent when he gets closer, something clean and subtle that Jeongguk doesn't recognize. Not the usual cologne Jimin wears to schedules. Something new. Something chosen.
Jimin slows when he sees him.
Surprise flickers across his face, his eyebrows lifting, mouth parting slightly, and then something warmer. Familiar. Recognition settling in like he's not entirely shocked to find Jeongguk here, just caught off guard.
"Jeongguk-ah?"
Jeongguk pushes himself up, scrubbing a hand over his face. His neck protests; he fell asleep at a bad angle. His hair is probably a disaster. He can’t bring himself to care. "Hey."
"What are you doing here?" Jimin's voice is soft, curious, and carefully not accusatory. He stops a few feet away, tilting his head like he's trying to read something in Jeongguk's expression.
"I texted you."
Jimin pulls his phone out, checking. His expression shifts, fond. A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Ah. I didn't see it."
"You weren't home."
"Yeah, I—" Jimin pauses, then moves past him toward the kitchen. His footsteps are quiet on the hardwood. "I just got back."
Jeongguk follows without thinking. It's muscle memory at this point, trailing after Jimin like a shadow, like he's physically incapable of staying put when Jimin leaves the room. He's always been like this. He suspects he always will be.
"You waited?" Jimin asks, glancing back at him as he opens the fridge. The light from inside casts his face in a pale glow, softening his features.
"Yeah."
"You could've called."
"I did."
Jimin's mouth twitches, that small smile widening just slightly. "Right."
He pulls out a water bottle, tosses it to Jeongguk, who catches it one-handed without looking. Neither of them comments on it. Some things don't need to be said.
"Do you want anything to eat?" Jimin asks, already opening the pantry. His back is to Jeongguk now, but Jeongguk can see the line of his shoulders, the way they're relaxed in a way they rarely are around anyone else.
"I'm fine."
"You sure? I have—" Jimin peers at a shelf, "—ramen. And some leftover chicken that might still be good."
"When did you get the chicken?"
"Three days ago."
"That's questionable."
"It's fine. It's been in the fridge."
"Hyung, that's not how food safety works."
Jimin turns around, giving him a look. "Since when are you the food safety police?"
"Since you almost gave us both food poisoning in 2019."
"That was one time."
"You were sick for two days."
"I was dramatic for two days. There's a difference."
Jeongguk laughs despite himself, a real laugh that surprises even himself. It feels strange in his chest, like using a muscle he forgot he had. "You're impossible."
"And yet here you are," Jimin says, closing the pantry. He's smiling now, small and genuine. "On my couch. Waiting for me."
Jeongguk shrugs, looking away. "Didn't feel like being alone."
Jimin doesn't respond to that immediately. He just watches Jeongguk for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he moves past him, heading toward the living room.
"Sit," he says casually, dropping onto the couch himself. "You didn't come all this way to stand by the fridge."
Jeongguk follows.
Because of course he does.
They sit.
Not too close. Not far. Just.
Jimin pulls his legs up, tucking them under himself, curling into the corner of the couch like a cat settling in for the night. Jeongguk stays more upright, hands resting on his knees, hyperaware of the space between them in a way he never used to be.
"So," Jimin says after a moment, not looking at him. "What's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Yeah."
"You showed up at my apartment at—" Jimin glances at his phone, "—eleven-thirty at night, let yourself in with your key code, fell asleep on my couch, and nothing is going on?"
Jeongguk picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. "I already told you. Didn't feel like being alone."
Jimin hums. It's not a skeptical hum, exactly. Just thoughtful. "You could've called first."
"I did call."
"Before you showed up, I mean."
"Would you have said yes?"
The question hangs in the air between them, heavier than Jeongguk intended.
Jimin doesn't answer right away. He really really looks at Jeongguk, the way he used to, like he's trying to see past whatever facade Jeongguk has put up. "I don't know," he says finally, honest in a way that stings. "Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"It's late, Jeongguk. I was out. I wasn't—" Jimin pauses, exhales. "I wasn't expecting company."
Jeongguk nods slowly. "Yeah. I know."
Another silence. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but charged. The kind of silence that used to be easy between them, the kind where words weren't necessary, but now feels like something they have to navigate carefully. Like walking through a room in the dark, feeling for furniture they used to know by heart.
Jimin shifts on the couch, pulling a blanket over his legs. "You look tired," he says.
"I'm always tired."
"More than usual."
Jeongguk shrugs. He doesn't know how to explain it. The weight of all those months apart from everyone he’s ever known, the strange loneliness of living alone after years of never having a moment to himself. "It's been a lot."
"Yeah," Jimin says softly. "It has."
They sit with that for a while.
"You look nice," Jeongguk says.
The words come out before he can stop them, honest and unguarded in a way he's been trying not to be lately. He's not sure why he says it. Maybe because it's true. Maybe because he's been noticing things about Jimin recently, little details he used to take for granted, and he doesn't know what to do with any of them.
Jimin's eyebrows lift. Then he smiles, small and pleased, a hint of color rising to his cheeks. "Do I?"
"Yeah."
"Thanks." Jimin tilts his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You look like you fell asleep on a couch."
Jeongguk snorts. "Fuck you too."
"True."
There's a beat and it’s all easy again, almost like old times. Jeongguk feels something in his chest loosen, just a little. A knot he didn't even realize he was carrying.
"You were out," he says.
Jimin hums. "Yeah."
"With… someone?"
Jimin doesn't answer immediately. He watches Jeongguk for a second, like he's deciding how much to say. His fingers tap against his knee once, twice, a nervous habit Jeongguk recognizes.
"Friend of a friend," Jimin says finally, careful. "We've been talking for a bit."
Jeongguk nods slowly. "Oh."
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not surprised." He is, a little. Or maybe not surprised, just aware, suddenly, that there are parts of Jimin's life he doesn't automatically know anymore. That used to be unthinkable. Now it's just... Tuesday.
"You're making a face," Jimin says.
"I'm not making a face."
"You're making your thinking face."
"I don't have a thinking face."
"You absolutely do. Your eyebrows do this thing—" Jimin gestures vaguely at his own forehead, "—like you're trying to solve a math problem."
Jeongguk huffs. "I'm not thinking that hard."
"You're always thinking that hard. It's exhausting to witness."
"You're exhausting to witness."
Jimin grins, bright and sudden, and for a second —just a second— they're back in the dorm in 2014, stealing each other's food and fighting over blankets and falling asleep tangled together because there was nowhere else to be. The memory hits Jeongguk like a physical thing, sharp and sweet and aching all at once.
"Was it good?" Jeongguk asks, before he can stop himself.
"Was what good?"
"The date."
Jimin's grin softens into something smaller, more private. "Yeah. It was good."
"Good."
"Yeah." Jimin pulls the blanket higher, wrapping it around his shoulders. "We just got dinner. Walked around for a bit. Nothing crazy."
"What's their name?"
Jimin raises an eyebrow. "Curious?"
"Just asking."
"You ask a lot of questions for someone who showed up unannounced."
"You don't have to answer."
Jimin considers this. His fingers find the edge of the blanket, fidgeting. "I don't mind," he says finally. "It's just—" He pauses, searching for words. "It's new. I'm not sure where it's going yet."
"So you don't want to jinx it."
Jimin laughs softly. "Something like that."
Jeongguk nods. He understands. More than he wants to.
He doesn't ask more about the date. Doesn't push. Doesn't let the jealousy he's half-afraid of surface. He's not even sure it's just jealousy, exactly— there’s a certain amount of grief too. Grief for the way things used to be, when he was the first person Jimin told about everything. When he didn't have to ask because he just knew.
But that was before. Before the company asked them to be careful. Before the cameras started cutting them out of frame. Before the pandemic emptied the world and gave them space they never asked for.
Space, Jeongguk is learning, has a way of changing things whether you want it to or not.
"You're doing it again," Jimin says.
"Doing what?"
"The thinking face."
Jeongguk exhales, forcing his shoulders to relax. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just—" Jimin shifts on the couch, turning to face him more fully. "Talk to me. What's actually going on?"
"I told you. I didn't want to be alone."
"And I believe you. But that's not everything."
Jeongguk stares at his hands. They're resting on his knees, still, fingers curled loosely. He thinks about all the times those hands reached for Jimin without thinking— in the dark, in the van, in crowded rooms where no one was watching. He thinks about how long it's been since he last did that.
"I miss you," he says quietly.
The words land soft but heavy, like snow piling on a branch.
Jimin doesn't respond immediately. When Jeongguk looks up, Jimin's expression is open. Vulnerable in a way he rarely allows himself to be.
"I'm right here," Jimin says.
"I know. That's not—" Jeongguk struggles to find the words. "I miss us. The way we used to be. Before everything got so... complicated."
Jimin's throat moves as he swallows. "We're not complicated."
"We're not not complicated."
A ghost of a smile crosses Jimin's face. "That's the most Jeongguk thing you've ever said."
"Is that bad?"
"No." Jimin's voice is soft. "It's just you."
They sit with that for a while. The silence doesn't feel charged anymore. Quiet in a way that reminds Jeongguk of the dorm at three in the morning, when everyone else was asleep and the world felt small enough to hold in his hands.
"You know," Jimin says eventually, "the code was never supposed to be permanent."
Jeongguk blinks. "What?"
"The key code. I gave it to you back in 2020, remember? When I was sick and you kept bringing me soup." Jimin's smile is fond, distant. "I figured you'd use it for a week, maybe two. Then things would go back to normal and I'd change it."
"But you didn't."
"No," Jimin agrees. "I didn't."
Jeongguk doesn't know what to do with that information. He files it away somewhere in his chest, next to all the other things he's collected about Jimin over the years. It joins the collection of knowledge of the way his feet swing when reading a particularly good webtoon, the shade of pink his cheeks are when he’s both proud and shy, the niche spot near Han River he goes to when he’s overwhelmed and wants to hide.
"Why didn't you?" Jeongguk asks.
Jimin looks at him for a long moment. The city lights filter through the window, casting shadows across his face. He looks tired, Jeongguk realizes.
"Because I didn't want to," Jimin says simply. "I told myself I would. A dozen times, probably. Every time I thought maybe we needed space, maybe we were too close, maybe we should—" He stops, exhales. "But then I'd think about you showing up. Letting yourself in. Making yourself at home. And I didn't want to take that away."
Jeongguk's chest tightens. "Jimin—"
"You don't have to say anything." Jimin's voice is steady, but there's something fragile underneath it. "I'm not telling you this because I want anything to change. I'm just... explaining. I guess."
"Explaining what?"
"Why I didn't change the code. Why I never asked you to stop coming over. Why I—" Jimin pauses, then shakes his head. "Never mind."
"Why you what?"
Jimin doesn't answer. He just looks at Jeongguk, and something passes between them and it’s that something unspoken, that something that feels like an answer even without words.
Jeongguk doesn't push. He's learning, slowly, that not everything needs to be said out loud.
Later when the night has settled into something soft and the conversation has drifted from nothing to nothing— Jimin leans his head back against the couch and closes his eyes.
"You can stay," he says quietly. "If you want."
Jeongguk looks at him. At the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the way his chest rises and falls like he's finally stopped holding his breath. At the shadows under his eyes that Jeongguk knows match his own.
"Yeah," Jeongguk says. "Okay."
He doesn't move to the guest room. Doesn't ask where he should sleep. He just stays where he is, shoulder almost touching Jimin's, and lets the distance between them shrink— just a little— just for tonight.
After a while, Jimin's head tips sideways, coming to rest against Jeongguk's shoulder. It's light at first, tentative, like he's testing whether it's still allowed.
Jeongguk doesn't move. Doesn't breathe differently. Doesn't acknowledge it at all.
But he doesn't pull away either.
He thinks about back then again. The dorm that was too loud. The bed that was never quite his own. Jimin's changing hair colors and Jimin's restless sleep and Jimin's hand finding his in the dark like it was the only thing keeping either of them grounded.
This isn't that. It's not the same desperate clinging, the need to be close because there was nowhere else to go. They're not kids anymore. They don't need each other the way they used to.
Jimin's breathing evens out, slow and steady. His weight against Jeongguk's shoulder grows heavier as sleep takes him.
Jeongguk doesn't move. He stays right where he is, in this apartment that feels more like home than his own, next to this person he's been orbiting for nearly a decade.
The key code is still his birthday.
He doesn't know what that means anymore.
But he's here. Jimin is here.
And for tonight, that's enough.
Nothing changes after that night. Not really.
Jeonggu goes home the next morning. Jimin makes coffee, hands him a mug without asking how he takes it and they stand in the kitchen like nothing happened. Like Jeongguk didn't fall asleep on his shoulder. Like Jimin didn't admit he kept the code on purpose.
They don't talk about it.
That's the problem. That's always been the problem.
The distance doesn't close. It instead becomes something they both learn to carry.
Jeongguk still texts first most of the time, but even that grows rare. Jimin still cancels. The days between replies still stretch longer than they should. The key code still works, but Jeongguk stops using it but not because he's angry, but because letting himself in feels different now. Heavier. Like asking for something he hasn't been given permission to want.
They're still friends. Still bandmates. Still them, in all the ways that matter to everyone else.
But late at night, in his too-quiet apartment, Jeongguk can feel the space where Jimin used to be.
It hasn't gotten smaller.
He's just gotten better at living around it.
_______________
Jeongguk ends up at Jin's place.
He doesn't plan it. He just ends up there. His feet know the way before his brain catches up, muscle memory carrying him through the familiar streets, past the convenience store where they used to buy late-night snacks, past the tree that Yoongi once almost walked into while looking at his phone.
Before he knows it, he's standing in front of Jin's door.
He knocks before he can talk himself out of it.
Jin opens the door, eyebrows lifting slightly. He's wearing an oversized sweater and sweatpants, glasses perched on his nose, a faint smell of something cooking drifting out from behind him. "Well, this is new."
Jeongguk shrugs, stepping inside without being invited. He's done this enough times now that the invitation feels implied. "What?"
"You coming over without warning." Jin closes the door behind him, already turning back toward the kitchen. "Usually you at least text. 'Hyung, I'm downstairs.' 'Hyung, what's the code.' 'Hyung, I'm hungry.'"
"I don't sound like that."
"You absolutely sound like that."
Jeongguk toes off his shoes and follows the smell of food. The apartment is warm, lived-in in a way his own place isn't yet— dishes in the drying rack, a blanket thrown over the back of the couch, a half-finished puzzle spread across the coffee table. It looks like someone actually lives here, not just passes through.
Jin's been cooking. Of course he has. There's a pot on the stove, something bubbling softly, and the table is set for one.
"You hungry?" Jin asks, already reaching for another bowl.
"Yeah."
"Then sit."
Jeongguk sits.
This has become a thing.
Jeongguk doesn't like being home alone anymore. It's not that he's scared, exactly. It's that the silence has started to feel like something alive, something that presses in on him from all sides. He's tried filling it with music, with TV, with the background noise of livestreams and video games. He's tried dating around, meeting people, telling himself that what he needs is company— any company— not anything specific.
But the home is still too quiet. The bed is still too big. The walls are still too white.
So he ends up here. At Jin's.
He's been sleeping over for a few days now. Maybe more. He's lost track of time again. The guest room has started to feel like his own, his charger on the nightstand, his hoodie draped over the chair, his toothbrush in the bathroom. Jin hasn't said anything about it. Hasn't asked when he's going home. Hasn't made him feel like a burden.
That's just who Jin is.
He's everyone's refuge. Has been for as long as Jeongguk can remember. The hyung who makes sure everyone eats, who cracks jokes when the tension gets too thick, who holds them together without ever seeming to try.
Jeongguk wonders, sometimes, who holds Jin together.
They eat in comfortable silence for a while.
The food is good like always and Jeongguk realizes he doesn't remember the last time he had a proper home-cooked meal made by someone else. He was starting to get sick of eating all the food he made just to pass time.
Jin watches him eat with that particular expression he gets where it’s half amusement, half concern, and always so so fond. "You know," he says casually, "you're welcome to stay. Obviously. But you do have your own apartment."
Jeongguk shrugs, not looking up from his bowl. "I know."
"I'm just saying. It's been a while days."
"A few weeks."
Jin's eyebrows rise. "Weeks?"
"Yeah."
"Has it really?"
Jeongguk nods, shoving rice into his mouth to avoid saying more.
Jin doesn't push. He never pushes. That's why Jeongguk keeps coming back, because his Jin hyung knows how to sit in silence without trying to fill it, how to be present without demanding anything.
They eat the rest of their meal in quiet. Jin tells a story about something stupid that happened during a schedule last week, and Jeongguk laughs and for a little while, everything feels normal.
After dinner, they move to the couch.
Jin's place has this thing about it, this quality that makes it easy to talk. Maybe it's the lighting. Maybe it's the warmth. Maybe it's just Jin, the way he makes space for people to be exactly who they are without apology.
Jeongguk curls into the corner of the couch, pulling a blanket over his legs. Jin settles on the other end, feet tucked under him, glasses sliding down his nose.
"So," Jin says, not looking at him. "You want to tell me what's going on?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Jeongguk-ah." Jin's voice is gentle. "You've been here for weeks, apparently. You barely texted before you showed up. You're eating like you haven't had a proper meal in weeks. And you keep looking at your phone like you're waiting for something that isn't coming."
Jeongguk's hand stills over his phone. He hadn't realized he was doing that.
"I'm not—" he starts, then stops. "I don't know how to explain it."
"Give it a try."
It's not a demand at all, more of an invitation. Jin's still not looking at him, gaze fixed on some random point across the room, giving him space to find the words.
Jeongguk exhales slowly.
"Everything's changing," he says finally. "And I don't know how to be okay with it."
Jin nods slowly. "Changed how?"
"Everything. Everything." Jeongguk spreads his hands, frustrated. "The way we used to be— all of us— it's different now. We don't live together anymore. We don't see each other every day. We have our own lives, our own apartments, our own—" He pauses. "Our own everything."
"That's called growing up," Jin says quietly.
"I know. That's what everyone keeps saying. But I don't—" Jeongguk presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. "I don't know who I am when I'm alone. I've never been alone. Not really. Not since I was fifteen."
Jin doesn't respond immediately. He lets the words settle, lets them exist in the space between them without trying to fix anything.
"Does this have anything to do with JImin?," Jin says after a moment. It's not really a question, though.
Jeongguk's hands drop. He looks at Jin, surprised.
"Come on," Jin says, finally turning to face him. "You think I haven't noticed? You think any of us haven't noticed?
Jeongguk stiffens at the name, just slightly, just a tiny flinch that Jin absolutely catches.
Jin's eyes narrow. Then he leans back, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Ha!"
"What?"
"There it is."
"There's what?"
"Something's wrong and it has to do with Jimin." Jin points at him, triumphant. "I knew it. I knew it."
"It's not—" Jeongguk starts, then stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "It's not just Jimin."
"But it's partially Jimin."
"...yeah. Partially."
Jin's smile softens. He doesn't push for more. Doesn't demand details or explanations. He just waits, patient and present, the way he always is.
And Jeongguk—Jeongguk is open like this. Always has been. With Jin, especially. There's something about him that makes it easy to say the hard things.
"Things are changing," Jeongguk says slowly. "Between me and him. Between all of us, but— specifically with him."
"Changing how?"
"I don't know. Just... changing." He stares at his hands. "We used to be inseparable. You know that. Everyone knew that. And now—" He shrugs. "Now we're not."
"That happens," Jin says. "When you grow up. When your lives go in different directions."
"I know. I'm not stupid."
"I didn't say you were."
Jeongguk exhales, frustrated with himself more than anything. "I just miss—" He stops. Swallows. "I miss when things were simple. When we were all crammed into that tiny dorm and there was no space and no privacy and it was annoying but at least we were together. Now we have all this space and I don't know what to do with it."
Jin is quiet for a long moment.
"You know I have to go," he says eventually. His voice is different now, softer, heavier. "Next year. Maybe sooner."
Jeongguk looks at him. He knows what Jin means. They all know. It's been hanging over them for all their lives at this point, this shadow none of them want to name.
"The military," Jeongguk says.
Jin nods. "I think about it all the time. What it's going to be like. Being away from all of you. Not knowing what's happening. Not being able to—" He pauses, jaw tightening. "Not being able to be here."
Jeongguk's chest aches.
"I'm scared," Jin admits quietly. "I don't say that a lot. I don't like saying it. But I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of missing things. Of coming back and everything being different. Of—" Jin laughs, but it's hollow. "Of you guys not needing me anymore."
"That's impossible," Jeongguk says immediately. "We'll always need you."
"You say that now."
"I mean it now. And I'll mean it then."
Jin looks at him for a long moment. Then his expression softens, and he reaches over to ruffle Jeongguk's hair. "You're a good kid, you know that?"
"I'm not a kid anymore."
"No," Jin agrees. "You're not. But you're still good."
They sit in silence for a while after that.
The weight between them feels different now, shared. Less like something Jeongguk is carrying alone and more like something they're both holding.
"What you're feeling," Jin says eventually, "it's not weird. It's not wrong. It's just—" He searches for the word. "Human. We're all going through it. All of us. Just in different ways."
Jeongguk nods, not trusting his voice.
"The thing is," Jin continues, "growing up doesn't mean losing each other. It just means learning how to love each other differently. From a distance, sometimes. With space. That doesn't make it less real."
"How do you know?"
Jin smiles, small and sad. "I don't. I'm figuring it out too."
And somehow that helps more than any answer would. Knowing that Jin, someone he’s always idolized, also doesn't have it all figured out. That he's scared too. That they're all just stumbling through this together, making it up as they go.
"Thanks, hyung," Jeongguk says quietly.
"For what?"
"For—" He gestures vaguely. "This. Being here. Not making me talk before I was ready."
Jin shrugs, like it's nothing. But Jeongguk can see the way his eyes glisten, just slightly, before he looks away.
"That's what hyungs are for," Jin says. "Now finish your dinner. There's leftovers, and I'm not letting you leave this apartment until you've eaten at least two more servings."
Jeongguk laughs—a real laugh, surprised out of him. "Yes, sir."
"And Jeongguk?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever's happening with you and Jimin—" Jin pauses. "It'll be okay. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not the way you expect. But it'll be okay."
Jeongguk wants to believe him desperately.
_______________
By the time Jeongguk arrives, the party is already in full swing.
The Hybe building itself is familiar of cpurse— he practically lives here. But tonight everything feels different. Louder in a way that has nothing to do with speakers blasting music around every corner. There's a kind of energy filling the space, something celebratory and restless all at once, perfectly expected for Hoseok’s listening party.
Music hums through the walls, bass low and steady, blending with the overlapping noise of conversation. Laughter spills from one corner to another, glasses clink, someone calls out Hoseok's name from across the room, and Jeongguk pauses just inside the entrance for a moment longer than necessary.
He scans the room without meaning to. Eyes moving from one group to another, past familiar faces and loud conversations that blur together until—
There.
Jimin is standing near the far wall, half-turned toward someone Jeongguk doesn't recognize. He's listening, nodding occasionally, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass. He looks comfortable.
Before Jeongguk can decide what to do with that, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
"Jeongguk!"
Hoseok appears like he always does, suddenly, brightly, pulling Jeongguk into a quick hug before he can overthink anything.
"You came," Hoseok says, grinning.
"Of course I did." Jeongguk returns the hug, shoulders relaxing slightly. "It's your night."
"It is," Hoseok says, laughing, though there's something softer underneath. "I wasn't sure you would, though. You've been disappearing lately."
"I haven't been disappearing."
"You have a little." Hoseok pulls back just enough to look at him properly. "But it's okay. You're here now."
Jeongguk nods, glancing past him toward the room again. Jimin is still there, still talking, still laughing at something the other person said.
"Go say hi," Hoseok says quietly, following his gaze.
"I will."
"Good." Hoseok claps his shoulder once, then gestures vaguely toward the back. "There's food near the bar. Eat something before you just stand here all night."
"I'll find it."
"You better."
And then Hoseok is gone, pulled away by someone calling his name, swallowed by the crowd of people who want to congratulate him.
Jeongguk takes a breath. Then another.
He doesn't approach Jimin immediately. Instead, he weaves through the room slowly, accepting greetings, exchanging quick words with people he recognizes. But his attention isn't really on them. It's somewhere else, circling the edges of the room, orbiting a fixed point he can't seem to pull away from.
It's Jimin who notices first.
Jeongguk doesn't see it happen, but he feels the shift in attention, the subtle way Jimin's focus drifts, eyes scanning until they land on him.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then Jimin says something quick to the person he's with, nods, and steps away.
Jeongguk's chest tightens.
He doesn't overthink it. He just walks.
Closing the distance feels strange— like something he used to do without thinking that now requires intention, awareness of every step, every second, every inch standing in between. But Jimin meets him halfway, and somehow that makes everything a lot easier.
"Hey," Jimin says.
Simple. Soft. There's a flicker of something in his eyes— surprise, maybe, or relief, or something in between.
"Hi," Jeongguk replies.
They stop a few feet apart.
"You came," Jimin says.
"Yeah. Of course."
Jimin nods, like that matters more than it should. Then he tilts his head toward a quieter corner of the room, away from the thickest part of the crowd. "Want to sit?"
Jeongguk doesn't hesitate. "Yeah."
They find a spot near one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the city lights blur into smears of neon and gold. There are chairs here, pushed slightly out of the way, and Jimin drops into one without ceremony.
Jeongguk sits across from him.
For a moment, neither of them says anything. The party continues around them— laughter rising and falling, music shifting tracks— but here, in this small pocket, things feel quieter.
"You look good," Jimin says finally.
Jeongguk blinks. "Thanks?"
"It wasn't a compliment. It was an observation."
"Give me my gratitude back then."
Jimin laughs— small, surprised out of him. "You're so weird."
"You're weird."
"I'm not the one who showed up and immediately started brooding in the corner."
"I wasn't brooding."
"You were."
"I was observing."
Jimin's smile lingers, soft at the edges. "Okay. Observing."
The word hangs between them, lighter than it should be. Jeongguk feels something in his chest loosen just a little and he leans back in his chair, letting his shoulders drop.
"So," he says. "Solo album."
Jimin raises an eyebrow. "Hoseok's, you mean."
"Yeah. Wild, right?"
"Wild," Jimin agrees. "He's been working on this for so long. I remember him playing rough versions in the studio two years ago, asking if it sounded terrible."
"Did it?"
"No. It sounded like him." Jimin glances across the room to where Hoseok is laughing with someone, bright and open. "I'm proud of him."
"Me too."
They both watch for a moment— Hoseok throwing his head back, someone clapping him on the shoulder, the easy way he moves through the room like he belongs everywhere at once.
"He's nervous though," Jeongguk says quietly.
Jimin nods. "Yeah. You can tell."
"Does he show it?"
"Not really. But we know him."
Jeongguk hums. "Yeah."
The conversation drifts after that. Easy. Unforced.
Jimin asks about Jeongguk's solo work first, opening a bridge to connect again, an olive branch of sorts.
"What are you working on right now?" Jimin asks, turning his glass idly in his hands.
"A few things," Jeongguk says. "Nothing concrete yet. I've been trying to figure out what I actually want to sound like."
"That's a big question."
"Yeah." Jeongguk exhales, running a hand through his hair. "I've been working with different producers. Trying things out. Some of its good. Some of it's shit."
"That's how it's supposed to work."
"I know. It's just—" He pauses, searching for the words. "I used to know exactly what kind of singer I wanted to be. Now I'm not sure anymore."
Jimin considers this. "Maybe that's not a bad thing."
"How?"
"Because you're not the same person you were five years ago. Or even two years ago." Jimin shrugs. "It makes sense that your music would change too."
Jeongguk looks at him. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You just never listened."
"I listened."
"You argued."
"I engaged."
Jimin laughs again, and it's easier this time, less surprised, more comfortable. "Same thing."
"It's not."
"It is."
They're both smiling now, and Jeongguk realizes he's been holding tension somewhere in his jaw without noticing. It loosens.
"What about you?" he asks. "What are you working on?"
Jimin hesitates. Just for a second.
"I've been playing with some ideas," he says carefully. "Nothing I'm ready to share yet."
"You don't have to."
"I know." Jimin looks down at his glass. "But there's actually something I wanted to ask you."
Jeongguk waits.
"I have this song," Jimin says slowly. "I've been working on it for a while. And I kept thinking—" He stops, then starts again. "Your voice would sound good on it. For the background vocals."
Jeongguk blinks. "You want me to sing on your song?"
"Just background vocals. Nothing big."
"Jimin."
"What?"
"That's—" Jeongguk shakes his head, almost laughing. "Yeah. Of course. Obviously."
"Obviously?"
"Obviously I'll do it. Why wouldn't I?"
Jimin's expression softens, something relieved settling into his features. "I don't know. I thought you might be busy."
"I'm always busy. That's not the point."
"What's the point?"
Jeongguk meets his eyes. "The point is you asked."
There's a beat.
"Okay," Jimin says quietly. "I'll send you the demo."
"Okay."
They're interrupted by Taehyung appearing out of nowhere, dropping into the chair next to Jimin without warning.
"You two look serious," he says, glancing between them.
"We're not," Jimin replies.
"You are."
"We're not."
Taehyung hums, unconvinced. Then he grins. "Okay."
He's dressed in something loose and flowy, jewelry catching the light, and he looks comfortable in a way that suggests he's been here for hours.
"How long have you been here?" Jeongguk asks.
"Long enough to know that Jin hyung is hiding in the corner over there." Taehyung points vaguely toward a dark section of the room. "He thinks no one can see him."
"Can anyone see him?"
"No. But I found him because he texted me asking for snacks."
Jeongguk snorts. "Of course he did."
"He's in his introvert era," Jimin says sagely.
"He's been in his introvert era since 2013."
"That's true."
Taehyung leans back, stretching his legs out. "Namjoon's here somewhere too. I saw him talking to some producers earlier. He had his serious face on."
"The one where he looks like he's calculating something?"
"Yeah, that one."
"Definitely talking about music, then," Jeongguk says.
"Or world domination," Jimin adds. "Could be either."
They all laugh at that and it’s all easy, familiar, the kind of laugh that doesn't require explanation.
"Hoseok's been floating around all night," Taehyung continues. "I don't think he's stopped moving once."
"He's running on adrenaline," Jeongguk says. "He's going to crash tomorrow."
"Someone should warn him."
"No one can warn Hoseok. He's unstoppable."
Jimin hums in agreement. "He's like a force of nature. You just have to let him happen."
Taehyung nods solemnly. "Hobi-nature."
Jeongguk groans. "That's terrible."
"You loved it."
"I didn't."
"Your face loved it."
"My face doesn't have opinions."
"Your face has many opinions," Jimin says. "It's very expressive. You're just not aware of them."
Jeongguk touches his own cheek suspiciously. "What is my face saying right now?"
"It's saying 'I'm surrounded by fucking idiots and I love them.'"
Jeongguk opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "...okay, that's accurate."
Taehyung stays for a while, weaving in and out of the conversation naturally. He talks about a photoshoot he did last week, the concept being something abstract and artsy that he clearly enjoyed. He asks Jimin about dance practice, about a choreography he's been struggling with, offers to come watch and give feedback.
"It's not working," Jimin admits. "There's this one transition. My body just won't do what I want it to."
"Have you tried filming it?" Taehyung asks. "Sometimes watching back helps."
"Yeah, I've watched it like fifty times."
"And?"
"And I still can't figure it out."
Taehyung considers this. "Maybe you're overthinking it."
"That's what Jeongguk said."
"Then listen to Jeongguk."
"I never listen to Jeongguk."
Jeongguk makes an offended noise. "Excuse me?"
"You're excused," Jimin says, not looking at him.
Taehyung cackles.
Eventually, Taehyung stands, stretching his arms above his head. "I'm going to find Namjoon. He promised to look at something for me."
"What something?"
"A secret."
"You don't have secrets."
"Everyone has secrets." Taehyung grins. "You just don't know mine."
He wanders off before either of them can respond, disappearing into the crowd.
Jeongguk watches him go. "He's so weird."
"He's happier," Jimin says quietly.
"I know." Jeongguk looks back at Jimin. "I'm glad."
"Me too."
They're alone again now. The party has thinned slightly, rearranged, people drifting toward different corners, different conversations.
Jimin shifts in his chair, pulling one leg up underneath him. "Have the managers talked to you about that travel show?"
Jeongguk nods. "Yeah. They mentioned it last week."
"What do you think?"
"I don't know. Could be fun. Could be a disaster."
"Both," Jimin says. "Definitely both."
They're quiet for a moment, considering.
"They asked who I'd want to travel with," Jimin says eventually.
Jeongguk's stomach does something complicated. "Oh yeah?"
"Mm." Jimin's tone is casual, like he's discussing the weather. "Among the members."
"What did you say?"
Jimin looks at him. Just looks. Then he shrugs. "I said I'd have to think about it."
"That's not an answer."
"It's an honest answer."
Jeongguk huffs. "Fine. Who would you pick?"
"I don't know. Everyone has terrible travel habits."
"That's not—" Jeongguk laughs despite himself. "That's not the question."
"The question is hypothetical."
"Answer it anyway."
Jimin pretends to think, tapping his finger against his chin. "Okay. Namjoon would lose something important within the first hour."
"Absolutely."
"Hoseok would want to do everything. Every tour, every museum, every restaurant. I'd be exhausted by day two."
"Taehyung would get distracted by something random and disappear for three hours."
"And come back with a new foreign friend who doesn’t even understand him and a story you don't quite believe," Jimin adds.
Jeongguk grins. "Exactly."
"Jin hyung and Yoongi hyung would be homebodies even on a trip and probably spend their entire time fishing."
"Secretly?"
"Flashbacks of Jin hyungs fishing trip scar me."
They both laugh at that—the image of Jin grumbling on a boat trying to get the best fish for sashimi.
"So," Jimin says, tilting his head. "That leaves..."
Jeongguk waits.
"I'd pick you," Jimin says quietly.
Something warm settles in Jeongguk's chest. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Jimin looks down at his hands. "You're easy to travel with. You don't complain too much. You're good at figuring things out when plans go wrong. And you—" He pauses. "You make things feel less stressful."
Jeongguk swallows. "I'd pick you too."
Jimin looks up.
"For the same reasons," Jeongguk continues. "You're calm. Even when things are chaotic, you stay calm. And you always know where the good food is."
Jimin laughs. "That's your criteria?"
"Good food is important."
"It is," Jimin agrees. "Very important."
They smile at each other, and for a moment, it feels like old times. Standing on the Bighit balcony after practice, talking about nothing and everything, the city spread out below them like a map of possibility.
The conversation shifts again, lighter now.
For a while they drift through the crowds, taking pictures, greeting friends, but never straying too far away from one another.
"That’s Dongmin’s new ‘situationship’ whatever that means, and he does tattoos," Jimin says. "Really nice ones. Dongmin showed me a photo."
"What kind of tattoos?"
"Like, botanical stuff. Flowers, leaves. Really delicate."
"That sounds cool."
"Yeah. I kind of want one now."
Jeongguk raises an eyebrow. "You?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I never saw you as the flower tattoo type of guy."
"I've thought about it." Jimin shrugs. "Something small. Meaningful."
"Like what?"
"I don't know yet. I'll know when I see it."
Jeongguk nods.
"Dongmin seems happy," Jimin adds. "Really happy. It's nice to see."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. They're good together. You can tell."
Jeongguk thinks about that— about what it means to be good together, to fit into someone's life without forcing it. He doesn't say anything. Just files it away somewhere quiet.
Namjoon finds them eventually.
He walks over slowly, hands in his pockets, looking thoughtful in that way he always does.
"You two hiding?" he asks, sitting down on the arm of Jeongguk's chair.
"Not hiding," Jimin says. "Conserving energy."
"That's the same thing."
"It's not."
Namjoon smiles, not arguing. He looks tired but pleased from a night well spent.
"How are you feeling?" Jeongguk asks him.
"About what?"
"Everything."
Namjoon considers this. "Tired. Hopeful. A little overwhelmed." He pauses. "The usual."
"Yeah," Jeongguk says. "Same."
Namjoon looks at him for a moment and something passes between them. Not words. Just recognition.
"You're doing okay?" Namjoon asks.
Jeongguk nods. "Getting there."
"Good." Namjoon reaches over and ruffles his hair, quick and affectionate. "That's good."
He doesn't push. Doesn't ask for details. Just sits with them for a while, contributing to the conversation when he feels like it, and Jeongguk is grateful for the way Namjoon knows when to be present and when to give space.
They talk about music for a bit. Namjoon mentions a book he's reading, a producer he's been wanting to work with, a lyric he can't quite get right.
"It's frustrating," he admits. "Knowing what you want to say but not knowing how to say it."
"That's literally your whole job," Jimin says.
"I know. That's why it's frustrating."
Jeongguk laughs. "You'll figure it out. You always do."
Namjoon smiles, small and private. "Thanks."
The party winds down slowly.
People start leaving. The music gets softer. The conversations grow quieter, more scattered.
Jeongguk and Jimin don't move.
They just stay where they are, talking about nothing and everything— future plans, small worries, the things they're looking forward to.
"I want to focus more on singing," Jeongguk says at one point. "Like, just singing."
"You'd be good at that."
"You think?"
"I know." Jimin looks at him. "Your voice is—" He pauses, searching for the word. "It's special. People should just hear it sometimes. Without any added meaning."
Jeongguk's chest aches. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me. It's just true."
They're quiet for a moment.
"I want to dance more," Jimin says eventually. "Not idol dancing. Just... dancing. For myself."
"Have you been doing that?"
"Not enough. I want to make space for it."
Jeongguk nods. "You should. You're—" He hesitates, then says it anyway. "You're amazing when you dance. Everyone knows that. But I think you forget sometimes."
Jimin looks at him for a long moment.
"...you notice things," Jimin says quietly.
"I notice you."
The words hang in the air between them.
Jimin's expression shifts into something soft, something fragile.
"I notice you too," he says.
Later— much later— they're almost the last ones there.
Hoseok has said goodbye to most of the guests. Staff is starting to clean up. Jin emerges from his corner to corral the remaining members toward the door.
"You two coming?" he calls across the room.
"Yeah," Jeongguk calls back. "In a minute."
Jin looks at them— at the way they're sitting close, at the ease that's settled between them— and nods.
"Take your time."
He leaves.
Jeongguk and Jimin don't move.
"Tonight was good," Jimin says.
"Yeah."
"Really good."
Jeongguk turns to look at him. Really look at him. At the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the way his eyes crinkle when he's trying not to smile.
"We should do this more," Jeongguk says.
"Do what?"
"Talk. Hang out. Not—" He gestures vaguely. "Not avoid each other."
Jimin's expression softens. "Yeah. We should."
There's a pause.
"I'm sorry," Jeongguk says quietly. "For pulling back. For making you feel like I didn't care."
Jimin shakes his head. "You don't have to—"
"I do." Jeongguk holds his gaze. "I didn't know how to be close to you without it being... what it used to be. And when that changed, I didn't know what to do."
Jimin is quiet for a moment.
"I didn't either," he admits. "I thought maybe you needed space. So I gave it to you."
"That's not what I needed."
"What did you need?"
Jeongguk considers the question. "You," he says finally. "Just... you. Not the way it used to be. Just the way it is now."
Jimin's eyes glisten.
"That's what I need too," he says.
They don't hug. Don't touch. Don't make promises they can't keep.
They just sit there, in the aftermath of a good night, and let themselves be.
When they finally stand to leave, Jimin reaches out and brushes his fingers against Jeongguk's wrist.
Brief. Barely there.
But intentional.
"Come over tomorrow," Jimin says. "I'll send you that demo."
Jeongguk nods. "Okay."
"And Jeongguk?"
"Yeah?"
Jimin smiles, small, soft, real. "I'm glad you came tonight."
Jeongguk smiles back.
"Me too."
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
The studio smells like coffee and something faintly sweet— Jimin's doing, probably, the new perfumes he was talking about trying out. Jeongguk lets himself in without knocking, because that's what they do now, and finds Jimin curled up in the producer's chair, feet tucked under him, scrolling through something on the screen.
"You're early," Jimin says without looking up.
"You're later than you said you'd be."
"I'm not later. You're earlier."
Jeongguk drops his bag on the couch and settles into the extra chair, spinning it once before facing Jimin. "Same thing."
"It's not."
"It is."
Jimin finally looks at him, and there’s that small smile that's been appearing more often lately, the one that says I'm glad you're here without using any words because no, they still don’t talk talk but it’s okay because they’re here at least. Jeongguk's chest does something familiar at the sight of the smile. He's stopped trying to name it long ago and he isn’t about to start now.
"Ready?" Jimin asks.
"For what?"
"To sing."
Jeongguk shrugs. "I'm always ready."
"Confident."
"Confident," Jeongguk agrees. "Also curious. You still haven't let me hear the full song."
Jimin's smile turns secretive. "You'll hear it."
"When?"
"When we record."
"That's cruel."
"That's strategy."
Jeongguk laughs, and the sound fills the small space, bouncing off the soundproofed walls. It feels good to laugh here, in this studio that isn't his, with this person who used to be everything and then became something else and now is becoming something new again.
The song is called "Letter."
Jimin tells him that first, before the track even starts playing. He says it quietly, like the word means more than it should.
"It's about—" Jimin pauses, searching. "It's about wanting to say things. Not being able to. Still trying anyway."
Jeongguk nods. He understands.
The track plays.
Jimin's voice fills the room first in it’s raw beauty, and ut sounds close, like he's singing right next to Jeongguk's ear. The production is sparse at the beginning, just piano and breath, and Jeongguk feels something tighten in his throat.
And how should I convey it?
I'm really not getting my words right
I know it sounds so clichéd
So that it's not taken lightly
Let me say it to you properly
Then the chorus builds, and Jeongguk hears where he's supposed to come in—the background vocals, layered underneath Jimin's melody, supporting without overpowering. It's not a big part. It's not meant to be.
But it's his.
"Here," Jimin says, pointing at the screen. "And here. And then at the end, just—" He hums the harmony line, soft and easy.
Jeongguk watches his mouth shape the notes.
"Got it," he says.
Recording is easier than it should be.
That's the thing about them, when the distance isn't in the way, when they're not overthinking every interaction, they fall into rhythm like breathing. Jimin directs from the booth, voice crackling through the headphones, and Jeongguk follows without question.
"Lighter on that note."
"Okay."
"More breath here."
"Like this?"
"Yeah. That's it."
They try different takes. Different approaches. Jeongguk watches Jimin's face through the glass, the way his eyes narrow when he's listening, the way his mouth moves slightly when he's singing along in his head.
At one point, Jimin comes into the recording room to adjust Jeongguk's mic placement, and their hands brush.
Neither of them pulls away.
"Sorry," Jimin murmurs.
"For what?"
"I don't know." Jimin doesn't move. "Old habit."
Jeongguk looks at him and at the proximity, at the way Jimin's breath fogs the mic slightly, at the softness in his expression. "It's okay," he says. "I don't mind."
Jimin swallows. Steps back.
"Let's do one more," he says.
"Okay."
By the time they finish, the sun has set outside the studio windows. Jeongguk doesn't remember what time they started. Doesn't really care.
Jimin is reviewing the takes, nodding to himself, making small notes on his phone. His hair is falling into his eyes. He looks tired but satisfied but this time, it’s the good kind of tired, the kind that comes from making something good.
"It's good," Jimin says. "You're good."
"I know."
"So fucking Modest."
"Confident," Jeongguk corrects. "You said that was fine."
Jimin laughs, and the sound fills the room.
They order food. Eat it on the studio floor because neither of them can be bothered to move to the table. Jimin picks at his rice in that familiar way— the one that used to make Jeongguk hover, push plates toward him, remind him to eat.
Jeongguk doesn't hover anymore. Not because he doesn't notice, but because Jimin has gotten better. Because they both have.
"You want some of my chicken?" Jeongguk asks instead.
Jimin looks at his chopsticks. "I have my own chicken."
"Mines more seasoned."
"It's fine."
"But you like spicy."
Jimin eyes Jeongguk's container. Then shrugs. "Okay."
Jeongguk pushes it toward him, and Jimin takes a piece, and it's such a small thing— such a nothing thing— but it feels like a door opening somewhere deep in Jeongguk's chest.
It's weeks later when Jimin calls him.
"I finished it," Jimin says. No greeting. Just that.
Jeongguk is at home, sprawled on his couch, half-watching something on his laptop. He sits up. "Finished what?"
"The album." A pause. "FACE. It's done."
Jeongguk's heart does something complicated. "Jimin—"
"I want you to hear it. Before anyone else."
The words land soft but heavy. Jeongguk grips his phone tighter.
"Now?" he asks.
"Now," Jimin says. "If you want."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
Jimin's apartment is dim when Jeongguk arrives, lit by just the warm glow of lamps, the city lights filtering through the windows. No candles this time.
Jimin is sitting on the couch, laptop open in front of him, hands resting on his knees. He looks nervous, which is strange because Jimin is usually never nervous about music. Jimin breathes music.
"Sit," Jimin says.
Jeongguk sits.
They're close on the couch— not touching, but close enough that Jeongguk can feel the warmth radiating off Jimin's arm. He doesn't move away.
"The album," Jimin starts, then stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "It's... personal. More personal than anything I've done before."
"Okay."
"I want you to know that. Before you hear it."
Jeongguk turns to look at him. Jimin's profile is sharp in the low light— the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the way his eyes are focused somewhere far away.
"I'm honored," Jeongguk says quietly.
Jimin glances at him. Smiles, small and fragile.
"Okay," Jimin says. "Okay."
He presses play.
The first track is "Face-off." It's haunting with layered vocals, a beat that pulses like a heartbeat, lyrics about hurt and trust and the universal pain of living in a world full of humans. Jeongguk listens without breathing.
Then "Interlude: Dive."
Then "Like Crazy" — brighter, more danceable, but with something sad underneath. A song about losing yourself in the night because the morning is too hard to face.
Jeongguk's chest aches.
"Is this about—" he starts.
"Just listen," Jimin says softly.
So Jeongguk listens.
"Alone" is the fourth track.
It hits differently.
The production is sparse—just piano and Jimin's voice, raw and close. The lyrics are about emptiness. About a room that's too quiet. About reaching for someone who isn't there.
Can I go back to where I am from?
Jeongguk closes his eyes.
He thinks about 2021. About his own too-quiet apartment. About the nights he couldn't sleep because the silence was too loud. About showing up at his hyungs’ homes without warning, without explanation, because being alone felt like drowning.
Jimin wrote this.
Jimin felt this.
And Jeongguk didn't know. Or maybe he did know, and he just didn't know what to do with it.
"You can open your eyes now," Jimin says quietly.
Jeongguk opens them.
Jimin is watching him, expression unreadable.
"I'm sorry," Jeongguk says.
"What for?"
"I didn't—" Jeongguk swallows. "I didn't know you were hurting like that."
Jimin's expression softens. "You were hurting too. We both were."
"That doesn't make it better."
"No," Jimin agrees. "But it makes it human."
The fifth track is "Set Me Free Pt. 2."
It's different from everything else—darker, more aggressive, a declaration more than a confession. Jeongguk recognizes the Jimin in this song. The one who fights. The one who refuses to stay down.
Look at me now
I won't stop, even if they mock me
Going insane to stay sane
Raise your hands for the past me
"This is my favorite," Jeongguk says.
Jimin looks surprised. "Really?"
"Really." Jeongguk turns to face him. "Because it's not sad. It's angry. And anger means you still care. Still want to fight."
Jimin stares at him for a moment. Then laughs and it’s quiet, almost disbelieving.
"You get it," Jimin says.
"I get you."
The last track is "Letter."
Jeongguk's voice appears in the background vocals, soft and layered underneath Jimin's melody. He'd forgotten how it sounded— how they sounded together. Like two halves of something. Like a conversation.
If we are together, even the desert could turn to a sеa
Just like how we werе then
When the song ends, the room is silent.
Jimin doesn't move to play anything else. He just sits there, hands in his lap, waiting.
"It's beautiful," Jeongguk says finally.
"You think?"
"I know." Jeongguk turns to look at him. "It's really beautiful, Jimin. You should be proud."
Jimin's lower lip trembles slightly. Just for a second. Then he smiles, real, genuine, relieved.
"Thanks," he says. "That means a lot. Coming from you."
They sit in the silence for a while, letting it settle. Jeongguk's mind is full of Jimin's voice, of the lyrics, of the weight of everything Jimin has been carrying without saying.
"I want to do more," Jeongguk says eventually.
Jimin looks at him. "More what?"
"More music. Real music. Something that's mine. Ours." He pauses. "Something that says who I am."
Jimin nods slowly. "What do you want it to sound like?"
"I don't know yet. I've been thinking about it a lot. About what I want to say." Jeongguk leans his head back against the couch. "Everything on Golden is what other people wrote. What the company thought would work and it’s good, it sounds good, but I wanna write. Not just for me, but for BTS too.. I want to—" He searches for the words. "I want to figure out what I want to say. When no one's telling me what to be."
Jimin is quiet for a moment. Then: "That's scary."
"Yeah."
"Really scary."
"Yeah."
"But you'll do it anyway."
Jeongguk turns his head to look at Jimin. "How do you know?"
"Because I know you." Jimin's voice is soft. Certain. "You've always been braver than you think."
They order more food— because that's what they do now, order food and eat it on couches and talk about the nothings—and the conversation drifts.
Jimin talks about his hopes for FACE. About wanting people to feel seen, to know that loneliness isn't the end of the story. About wanting to perform these songs live one day, to scream "Set Me Free" on a stage with the lights blinding him.
"I want to feel that," Jimin says. "The release of it."
"You will," Jeongguk says.
"You think?"
"I know."
Jimin smiles. "You're very confident tonight."
"I'm always confident."
"Liar."
"Fine. I'm confident in you."
Jimin's expression flickers with something akin to surprise, something pleased. He ducks his head, hiding his face behind his hand, and Jeongguk's chest does that thing again. That thing he's been ignoring for years.
The topic shifts to the military.
It's been hanging over them for months— the inevitable pause, the forced break, the unknown. They've talked about it in group settings, in passing, in the way everyone talks about things they'd rather not face.
But they haven't talked about it like this. Just the two of them.
"I've been thinking," Jimin says quietly. "About when we have to go."
Jeongguk's stomach tightens. "Yeah."
"I don't want to go alone."
"None of us want to go alone."
"That's not what I mean." Jimin looks at him and it feels like his eyes bore into Jeongguk’s soul. "I mean—I don't want to go without you."
The words settle between them.
Jeongguk's heart is loud in his ears.
"What are you saying?" he asks, though he thinks he knows.
Jimin takes a breath. "I'm saying— we should just go together. Enlist at the same time. Be in the same place. However that works. I don't want to—" He stops. Swallows. "I don't want to be alone again. Not after everything."
Jeongguk thinks about 2021 again. About the silence in his apartment. About the nights he stared at his phone, willing it to buzz. About the distance that grew without either of them meaning for it to.
"I don't want that either," he says.
Jimin's shoulders relax slightly. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"So you'll—"
"I'll talk to the company. We'll figure it out." Jeongguk reaches over without thinking, his hand finding Jimin's on the couch. "We'll go together."
Jimin looks down at their hands.
Jeongguk doesn't pull away.
"We're really doing this," Jimin says quietly. "Solo albums. Military. All of it."
"We're really doing it."
"It's scary."
"Yeah." Jeongguk squeezes Jimin's hand gently. "But we're doing it together."
Jimin looks up at him, and there's something in his expression— something Jeongguk has seen before but never quite named. Something soft. Something fragile. Something that looks like it might break if either of them breathes wrong.
"Jeongguk-ah," Jimin says.
"Yeah?"
Jimin opens his mouth. Closes it.
Then he shakes his head, smiling, and pulls his hand away gently.
"Nothing," he says. "Just, thank you. For being here."
"Where else would I be?"
"I don't know. Anywhere. Everywhere. I'm just glad it's here, with me."
Jeongguk wants to say something. Wants to ask what that something was that Jimin almost said, what was sitting on the edge of his tongue, what made his eyes go soft like that. Was it the same something that settled behind his own ribs?
He doesn't ask.
Instead, he leans back against the couch, shoulder pressing against Jimin's, and lets himself exist in this moment.
"There's something I haven't told you," Jimin says after a while.
"What?"
"About 'Letter.'" Jimin's voice is careful. "The person I was writing to."
Jeongguk waits.
"It wasn't just ARMY," Jimin says quietly. "It was—" He pauses. "It was someone specific. Someone I couldn't say the words to. So I wrote them instead."
Jeongguk's throat feels tight. "Who?"
Jimin turns to look at him.
The silence stretches.
"You know who," Jimin says finally.
And Jeongguk— Jeongguk thinks he might.
But neither of them says it.
Not yet.
Outside, the city hums. Inside, the space between them feels smaller than it has in years filled with that something that's been waiting in the wings for longer than either of them wants to admit.
"Play it again," Jeongguk says.
Jimin blinks. "What?"
"The album. Play it again."
Jimin looks at him for a moment. Then he smiles, soft, wondering, like he's seeing something for the first time.
"Okay," he says.
He presses play.
And Jeongguk listens.
_______________
The trailer is tiny, compact, a no-frills type of rental. Jeongguk chose it for the seclusion, for the fireflies that flicker in the bushes at dusk, for the small deck that catches the morning light just right. There are no neighbors for half a mile, no city noise, no schedules to keep. It's supposed to be a few days of quiet during the chaos of promotions abroad, a brief pause before the next flight, the next show, the next obligation. They've been needing this for months.
The bed is pressed against one wall, the kitchen tucked a few feet away, and the bathroom is a closet-sized afterthought wedged in another corner. You can stand in the center of the trailer, turn in a slow circle, and see everything at once. Jeongguk loves it. Jimin called it "aggressively small" when they arrived, then immediately claimed his side of the bed, limbs sprawling possessively over the area.
Jimin is green by the first night.
Jeongguk wakes to the sound of the bathroom door closing with a careful, deliberate click that suggests someone is trying very hard not to make noise. He lies still for a moment, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the trailer: the creak of old metal, the distant chirp of crickets, the soft rush of wind through the trees outside.
Then he hears it.
Something that sounds violent and prolonged and deeply, profoundly unpleasant. The toilet flushes. There's a groan— low, miserable, the kind of sound a person makes when their body has declared war on them and is winning.
Jeongguk is out of bed before he thinks about it, feet padding across the cold floor to the bathroom door.
"Jimin?" He knocks softly, knuckles barely grazing the wood. "Hyung? You okay?"
A pause. Then, weakly: "...no."
Jeongguk turns the knob. It's unlocked.
Jimin is sitting on the toilet, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His face is pale— no, not just pale, but gray, the color of cold concrete. His hair is sticking to his forehead in damp strands, and there's a sheen of sweat on his skin that catches the dim light from the single bulb above the sink. He looks small and miserable and very, very sorry for himself.
"Everything okay in here?" Jeongguk asks, leaning against the doorframe.
"Do I look okay?"
"You look like you're dying."
"Feel like it too." Jimin groans, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "I think it was the cheese."
"The cheese from that burger we had at the rest stop?"
"The same."
Jeongguk wrinkles his nose. "I told you it looked like shit."
"You didn't say that."
"I thought it very loudly."
Jimin glares at him, but there's no heat in it, just exhaustion and resigned misery that makes Jeongguk's chest ache even as he fights back a grin.
"How many times have you gone?" Jeongguk asks.
"I've lost count. Everything left my body at least an hour ago. Now it's just—" Jimin gestures vaguely at his midsection. "Dry heaving. But from the other end."
"That's disgusting."
"You're the one who asked."
Jeongguk giggles— he can't help it, the situation is too absurd, the trailer too small, Jimin too pathetic— and Jimin makes a sound of pure outrage.
"Don't laugh at me!"
"I'm not laughing."
"You're literally laughing."
"I'm bringing positivity into the situation. It's different."
Jimin's stomach makes a sound like a dying animal. His expression shifts from outrage to alarm to fresh misery in the span of a single second. "Oh no."
"Again?"
"Again."
Jeongguk steps out of the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him, and listens to the muffled sounds of Jimin's continued suffering. He moves to the kitchen— three steps, because everything in the trailer is three steps from everything else— and opens the cabinets one by one until he finds what he's looking for.
There's no medicine. Of course there's no medicine. They packed for a quiet getaway, not for the apocalypse currently happening in the bathroom.
"I'm going to the convenience store," Jeongguk calls through the door.
"The one five miles away?"
"It's the only one."
"You'll be gone for an hour."
"Less, if I speed."
"Don't speed."
"Then it'll take an hour."
Jimin makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be another cramp. Jeongguk can't tell. He grabs his jacket, his wallet, the keys to the rental car, and pauses at the front door.
"Anything specific you want?"
"Pepto-Bismol," Jimin says, voice strained. "And maybe some of those electrolyte drinks. The blue ones."
"Not the blue ones. You hate the blue ones."
"The blue ones are the only ones that work."
"They taste like stale water."
"I don't care what they taste like. I just want my insides to stop trying to escape."
Jeongguk grins. "Fine. Blue ones. Anything else?"
"Rice crackers. The plain ones. Nothing flavored."
"Boring."
"Effective."
"Same thing."
"It's not—" Jimin's voice cuts off as another wave of misfortune hits. Jeongguk takes it as his cue to leave.
The convenience store is exactly where he remembers it— a small, brightly lit oasis at the intersection of two rural roads, filled with the particular smell of instant ramen and floor cleaner. Jeongguk grabs a basket and starts loading it up: Pepto-Bismol first, because that's non-negotiable, then the blue electrolyte drinks that Jimin insists on despite their medicinal flavor, then a sleeve of plain rice crackers.
He hesitates in front of the snack aisle. Jimin said plain, but Jimin is also suffering and might not know what he actually wants. Jeongguk grabs a small bag of honey barbeque chips, Jimin's favorite, the kind he hoards when they're on tour, and adds it to the basket. If Jimin doesn't want them, Jeongguk will eat them himself. It's a win either way.
The cashier is an older woman who eyes his basket with knowing sympathy. "Someone not feeling well?"
"Food poisoning," Jeongguk says, sliding his card into the reader. "Dodgy cheese."
"Ah," she says, nodding. "The cheese will get you every time."
"That's what I said."
"Give them the Pepto first," she advises. "Then the crackers. Don't let them eat anything heavy for at least twelve hours."
Jeongguk nods seriously, like he's receiving military instructions. "Understood. Anything else?"
"Lots of water. And patience." She smiles, soft and grandmotherly. "Food poisoning never makes a good patient."
"Trust me," Jeongguk says, thinking of Jimin's dramatic groans and accusatory glares. "I know."
The drive back takes twenty minutes instead of thirty, because the roads are empty and Jeongguk is feeling generous with the speed limit. He parks next to the trailer, grabs the bag, and lets himself in.
The bathroom door is still closed. The light is still on. Jeongguk can hear the shower running.
"Hyung?"
A pause. Then: "I'm alive."
"Barely."
"Barely counts."
Jeongguk sets the bag on the kitchen counter, pulls out the Pepto-Bismol, and shakes the bottle. The pink liquid sloshes invitingly. "I come bearing gifts."
The bathroom door cracks open. Jimin peers out, pale and exhausted, his hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes land on the Pepto-Bismol, and something in his expression shifts with relief, gratitude, and a little bit of embarassment.
"You got it."
"I got it. And the blue drinks. And the crackers."
"And chips?"
Jeongguk holds up the bag of honey butter chips. "Those are for me. In case you're boring and only want the crackers."
Jimin's mouth twitches, almost a smile. "You're ridiculous."
"You're the one who ate the cheese."
"I didn't know it was bad!"
"It was blue, Jimin. Cheese shouldn't be blue."
"It was a delicacy."
"It was creepy."
Jimin makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be another cramp. He takes the Pepto-Bismol from Jeongguk's hand, unscrews the cap, and takes a long drink straight from the bottle.
"That's disgusting," Jeongguk says, watching him.
"So is what's happening in my intestines."
"Fair point."
Jimin lowers the bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks at Jeongguk with an expression that's trying very hard to be stern but mostly just looks tired. "Don't tell anyone about this."
"About the cheese or about the Pepto-Bismol chugging?"
"About any of it."
Jeongguk pretends to think. "I don't know. It's pretty funny."
"It's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
"It's not—" Jimin's stomach makes another ominous sound. He closes his eyes, takes a slow breath, and when he opens them again, all traces of humor are gone. "If you tell Taehyung, I will end you."
"Your threats are less effective when you're wearing sweatpants and holding a bottle of Pepto."
"My threats are always effective."
Jeongguk grins. "Sure, hyung."
Jimin shuffles back to bed eventually. Jeongguk follows him, because the trailer is too small to be anywhere else, and sits on the edge of the mattress while Jimin arranges himself against the pillows.
"You don't have to stay," Jimin says, for the second time that night.
"I know."
"You could go sit outside. Look at the fireflies."
"I could." Jeongguk shrugs. "But I've seen fireflies before. Never seen you this pathetic."
Jimin throws a pillow at him. It misses entirely, landing on the floor with a soft thump.
"Your aim is terrible."
"My aim is compromised by the fact that I'm actively dying."
"You're not dying. You have food poisoning."
"Same thing."
Jeongguk laughs, picks up the pillow, and sets it next to Jimin on the bed. "Drink your blue stale water. Go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."
Jimin eyes the electrolyte drink suspiciously. "You really got the blue ones."
"You asked for the blue ones."
"I was delirious. I didn't know what I was saying."
"You said, and I quote, 'the blue ones are the only ones that work.'"
"I was lying."
Jeongguk rolls his eyes, unscrews the cap of the blue drink, and hands it to Jimin. "Drink."
Jimin drinks. He makes a face that says this tastes like medicine and I hate it, but he keeps drinking until the bottle is half empty.
"Good," Jeongguk says.
"Don't patronize me."
"I'm not patronizing you. I'm encouraging you."
"Same thing."
"Not even close."
Jimin sets the bottle on the nightstand and sinks deeper into the pillows. His eyes are already drooping, the exhaustion catching up with him now that his body has stopped actively rebelling.
"You're going to stay here?" he mumbles.
"I'm going to stay here."
"You're going to watch me sleep?"
"I'm going to make sure you don't die in your sleep."
Jimin's mouth curves into a small, sleepy smile. "You're weird."
"You're weirder."
"No one can top you, though."
"Never."
Jimin's eyes close. His breathing slows, evening out into something deeper, something steadier. Jeongguk watches him for a moment— the way his face relaxes in sleep, the way the tension leaves his shoulders.
He doesn't move.
He just sits there, in the small trailer with the bed next to the kitchen next to the bathroom, and listens to Jimin breathe.
The fireflies flicker outside the window.
The night stretches on.
And Jeongguk stays, because there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
The pool is dark now.
They'd spent hours in it earlier— splashing, wrestling, Taehyung dramatically faking his own drowning until Jimin told him to shut up and Jeongguk actually laughed so hard he inhaled water. The sun had been brutal, the water cool, and for a few hours, they'd been the teenagers they once were again. No schedules. No cameras. Just the three of them, the way it used to be before the world got so big.
Now the pool reflects the moonlight, still and silver, and the three of them are sprawled across the deck in various states of exhaustion. Taehyung's hair is still damp, curling at the ends. Jimin has a towel draped over his face, hiding from nothing. Jeongguk is staring at the stars, counting them without really counting.
"This was good," Taehyung says into the quiet.
"Yeah," Jimin agrees, voice muffled under the towel.
"Needed this."
"Mm."
Jeongguk turns his head to look at them. Taehyung's eyes are closed, face peaceful. Jimin's chest rises and falls slowly, the towel shifting with each breath.
"Remember when we used to do this in the dorm?" Jeongguk asks. "Stay up late. Talk about nothing."
"Used to get in trouble for it," Taehyung says.
"Worth it."
"Always worth it."
Jimin pulls the towel off his face, blinking up at the sky. "Remember when we snuck out to the convenience store at 2 AM and almost got caught?"
"You almost got caught," Taehyung corrects. "Me and Jeongguk ran."
"Yah—"
"You tripped over your own feet. It was very dramatic."
Jimin throws the towel at him. Taehyung catches it, grinning.
"You're both children," Jeongguk says.
"And you're not?"
"I'm very mature."
"You cried at a commercial last week."
"That commercial was emotional."
Jimin laughs, and the sound carries across the pool, echoes off the walls of the house behind them. It's warm and familiar and something Jeongguk wants to bottle up and keep forever.
The conversation shifts, as it always does, to the future.
Taehyung brings it up first. "What do you think it'll be like? After."
"After what?" Jimin asks.
"After everything. The military. Solo careers. All of it."
Jeongguk considers the question. He's been thinking about it a lot lately about the shape of his life after BTS, the shape of himself after being an idol for more than half his life. It's hard to imagine. Hard to picture who he is without all of this. He’s not sure if he wants an ‘after BTS’ at all.
"It’s so far away," he says finally. "But we’ll still be us."
"I want to act more," Taehyung says. "Cameos and also full roles, you know. I want to disappear into a character for a while."
"You'd be good at that," Jimin says.
"You think?"
"I know. You've always been good at becoming someone else."
Taehyung nods slowly, like he's filing that away somewhere. "What about you, Jimin? What do you want?"
Jimin is quiet for a moment. The moonlight catches his profile, soft and contemplative.
"I want to keep making music," he says. "But I want to do it on my terms. No pressure. No deadlines. Just—" He pauses. "Just making things because I have something to say."
"And you?" Taehyung turns to Jeongguk.
Jeongguk thinks about it. Really thinks.
"I want to be happy," he says. "That sounds stupid."
"It doesn't sound stupid."
"It sounds simple. But I don't think it is. I've spent so long being what everyone needs me to be. I want to figure out what I need."
Jimin is watching him. Jeongguk can feel his gaze, warm and steady.
"I think you're already figuring it out," Jimin says quietly.
Jeongguk looks at him.
"Yeah," he says. "Maybe."
Taehyung stretches, arms above his head, and lets out a long breath. "I'm going to miss her."
The words land softly. Jeongguk knows he’s referring to the girlfriend, the one who exists in the spaces Taehyung protects so carefully.
"Have you talked about it?" Jimin asks. "The military, I mean."
"Some. She says she'll wait." Taehyung's voice is careful. "I believe her. I just—" He pauses. "I don't like the idea of her waiting. Sitting around. Putting her life on hold for me."
"That's not what she'd be doing."
"Isn't it?"
"No," Jimin says firmly. "Waiting isn't the same as pausing. She has her own life. Her own things. She's choosing to be there when you come back. That's different."
Taehyung considers this. "You think so?"
"I know so."
Taehyung is quiet for a moment. Then he nods, slowly, like something has settled.
"Okay," he says. "Okay."
"And you two?" Taehyung asks, turning the question back on them. "Have you figured out what you're doing?"
Jeongguk knows what he's asking. Not about solo careers. Not about music.
Jimin shifts slightly on his chair. "We're enlisting together."
Taehyung's eyebrows rise. "Together together?"
"Same time. Same place. Sounds fun, right?." Jimin glances at Jeongguk. "We're figuring it out."
"I didn't know that," Taehyung says.
"We haven't told that many people yet."
"Why not?"
Jeongguk shrugs. "Didn't want to make it a thing. It's just—" He searches for the words. "It made sense. For both of us."
Taehyung looks between them, something knowing in his expression. "You don't want to be alone."
It's not a question.
"No," Jimin says quietly. "We don't."
Taehyung nods slowly.
"I'm glad," he says finally. "That you'll have each other."
Jeongguk's chest tightens.
"Me too," he says.
The last night in Jeju stretches on, infinite and finite all at once.
They don't talk about anything important after that. They talk about nothing—about the food they'll eat tomorrow, about the flight back, about whether Taehyung snores louder than Yoongi (he does, but none of them will ever tell him). The conversation drifts in and out, easy and unforced, the way conversations only are when you've known someone long enough to stop trying.
At some point, Jimin's head ends up on Jeongguk's shoulder.
At some point, Jeongguk's cheek ends up resting against Jimin's hair.
At some point, Taehyung wakes up just enough to grumble about being left out, and they rearrange themselves so the three of them are crushed together on one too-small deck chair, limbs tangled, warmth shared.
"This is uncomfortable," Jimin says.
"Don't care," Taehyung mumbles.
"Me neither," Jeongguk says.
Jimin laughs quietly.
"Okay," he says. "Okay."
The moon moves across the sky. The pool water ripples in the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a plane flies over, carrying people to places they've never been.
Jeongguk closes his eyes.
He thinks about the military. About going with Jimin. About the year they'll spend together, away from everything, away from cameras and schedules and the weight of being who they are. It scares him— the uncertainty, the unknown, the version of himself he'll have to become.
But Jimin will be there.
Jimin will always be there.
And that, Jeongguk thinks, is enough to hold onto.
"Hey," Jimin whispers, so quiet only Jeongguk can hear.
"Hey."
"I'm glad we're doing this. The trip. All of it."
"Me too."
A pause.
"I'm glad it's you," Jimin says.
Jeongguk's heart stutters.
"What?"
But Jimin is already asleep, breathing soft and even, his weight heavy and warm against Jeongguk's side.
Jeongguk doesn't move.
Eventually in the darkness, somewhere between what they are and what they're becoming, Jeongguk lets himself fall asleep too.
The cabin where they spent most of their time in Sapporo is already a memory by the time they lock the door behind them.
Jeongguk can still feel the warmth of the hearth, the weight of Jimin's head on his shoulder, the way they'd fallen asleep on the floor in front of the TV, tangled in the same blanket, neither of them willing to move. Three days of snow and steam and quiet conversations.
Now the car is packed. The keys are in Jeongguk's hand. And the drive to the airport stretches ahead of them like a countdown.
"Ready?" Jeongguk asks.
Jimin looks back at the cabin one last time. Then he nods.
"Yeah. Let's go."
The roads are empty this early.
Snow banks rise on either side. The sky is pale gray, still heavy with clouds, and the world feels caught between night and morning, between what was and what comes next.
Jeongguk drives with both hands on the wheel, steady, careful. Jimin sits in the passenger seat, legs pulled up, knees tucked under his chin. He's been quiet since they left.
"You okay?" Jeongguk asks.
"Mm."
"That's not an answer."
"It's not a no."
Jeongguk glances at him. Jimin is staring out the window, watching the trees blur past, his expression unreadable.
"We can stop," Jeongguk offers. "Get coffee. Stretch."
"We just left."
"So? We have time."
Jimin considers this. Then, slowly, he reaches over and rolls down his window.
Cold air rushes in, sharp, biting, immediate. It steals the breath from Jeongguk's lungs and whips Jimin's hair across his face. Jimin doesn't flinch. He closes his eyes and leans his head back, letting the wind hit him.
"Jimin—"
"Just for a minute."
Jeongguk watches him. The way the cold brings color to his cheeks. The way his lips part slightly, tasting the air. The way he looks, for a moment, like he's trying to memorize something.
Jeongguk rolls down his own window.
The cold is punishing. It stings his skin, makes his eyes water, turns his breath into clouds that disappear almost immediately. But Jimin is smiling now and somehow that makes it worth it.
"This is stupid," Jeongguk says, shivering.
"Very stupid."
"We're going to get sick."
"Probably."
Neither of them rolls the window up for a while.
The road curves toward the coast. The trees thin out, replaced by open fields and distant mountains, still capped with snow even though spring is supposed to be coming. The sky starts to lighten, pale gold bleeding through the gray.
Jimin finally rolls his window up. Jeongguk does the same, and the sudden warmth is almost disorienting.
"My face hurts," Jimin says, rubbing his cheeks.
"You did that to yourself."
"You didn't have to do it too."
Jeongguk shrugs. "Didn't want you to be cold alone."
Jimin looks at him with those soft soft eyes. There's something gentle in his expression— that something that makes Jeongguk's chest ache in a way he's starting to get used to.
"You're ridiculous," Jimin says.
"You're ridiculous."
"We're both ridiculous."
"Agreed."
The conversation comes easier after that.
Jimin talks about the jacuzzi—how the steam had felt like a blanket, how the snow had melted on Jeongguk's shoulders, how quiet everything had been, like the world was holding its breath just for them. Jeongguk talks about cooking—how Jimin had sat at the counter and watched, how he'd pretended not to notice Jimin stealing vegetables to snack on from the cutting board, how the kitchen had felt like somewhere he belonged.
"Are you nervous?" Jimin asks eventually.
Jeongguk knows what he means. The military. The unknown. The months stretching ahead of them like a question mark.
"Yeah," he admits. "You?"
"Terrified."
Jeongguk glances at him. Jimin's hands are in his lap, fingers laced together, knuckles white.
"I keep thinking about the cabin," Jimin says quietly. "About how it felt. How I wish we could just—" He pauses. "Stay there. Forever."
"We can't."
"I know." Jimin's voice is barely a whisper. "That's what makes it sad."
Jeongguk reaches over without thinking. His hand finds Jimin's, pries his fingers apart, and holds on. Jimin's palm is still cold from the window but his grip is immediate, desperate, grateful.
"Hey," Jeongguk says.
Jimin looks at him.
"We're going together. Remember? Same time. Same place."
"I remember."
"So it's not like we're saying goodbye." Jeongguk squeezes his hand. "We're just... changing scenery."
Jimin laughs wet, surprised, almost hysterical. "Changing scenery. That's what you're calling it."
"You have a better word?"
"No." Jimin wipes his eyes with his free hand. "No, that's—that's actually perfect."
They drive in silence for a while, hands still intertwined on the center console. The airport is getting closer. Jeongguk can see the signs now, the exit lanes, the inevitable approach.
"I'm glad it's you," Jimin says.
Jeongguk's heart stutters. "You said that before."
"In Jeju. I know." Jimin turns his hand over, lacing their fingers more securely. "I meant it then. I mean it now."
Jeongguk takes a breath.
"I'm glad it's you too," he says. "I don't think I could do this with anyone else."
"You never have to."
"I know."
The airport appears in the distance— terminals, parking garages, the bustle of people starting their journeys. Jeongguk slows the car, following the signs toward rental return.
Neither of them lets go.
"We're going to be okay," Jeongguk says. It's not a question.
Jimin looks at their joined hands. At the road ahead. At Jeongguk's profile, lit by the gray morning light.
"Yeah," he says. "We are."
Jeongguk pulls into the rental lot, finds a spot, puts the car in park.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then Jimin leans over and presses his forehead against Jeongguk's temple. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel.
"Let's go," Jimin whispers.
Jeongguk closes his eyes.
"Let's go," he agrees.
They get out of the car.
The cold hits them again, immediate and sharp, but this time—this time, Jimin is laughing. Bright and loud and real, his breath clouding in the air, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"What?" Jeongguk asks.
"I don't know!" Jimin throws his hands up. "I just—I feel good. Even though I shouldn't. Even though this is sad. I just—"
He looks at Jeongguk.
And Jeongguk looks back.
"Me too," Jeongguk says. "I feel good too."
Jimin grins.
"Race you to the terminal?"
"You'll lose."
"I never lose."
"You lost at Mario Kart last week."
"That's different."
"It's not different."
"It's entirely different—"
Jimin takes off running, boots slipping on the icy pavement, laughter trailing behind him like a banner. Jeongguk watches him for half a second— watches the way he moves, the way the light catches his blond hair, the way he looks back over his shoulder, waiting.
Then Jeongguk runs after him.
The cold doesn't matter.
The military doesn't matter.
All that matters is this—the chase, the laughter, the promise of something waiting for them on the other side.
They're going together.
Together.
Jimin is still laughing, bright and unguarded, and Jeongguk thinks— not for the first time— that he would follow this person anywhere.
Into the military. Into the sun. Into any uncertainty. Into whatever comes next.
_______________
The vacation from the military is only ten days.
It feels like both everything and nothing— a breath held too long, a door opened just to watch it close again. Ten days to remember what it feels like to be themselves. Ten days before they have to go back.
They don't plan to spend it together.
That's the thing. They talk about it on the drive from the base— about seeing family, about sleeping in their own beds, about catching up with friends, about all the things they've been missing. Jimin mentions his mom's cooking. Jeongguk mentions his brother. They make loose plans to meet up sometime in the middle, maybe, if they have time.
Then they get home.
And somehow— without either of them saying it out loud— they end up at Jeongguk's apartment.
The military has been hard of course.
It wasn’t hard in the ways they expected, there was no dramatics. It was hard in the quieter ways— the restlessness to just go home that creeps in during the empty hours, the exhaustion that sits in their bones, the smallness of being just another person in a system that doesn't care about who they used to be and having to prove themselves again, this time to a different system.
But they've had each other.
That's what matters. That's what's kept them going. Late-night conversations in the barracks, whispered hopes through the dark. Shoulders brushing during meals. The knowledge that no matter how hard it gets, the other person is right there.
They don't talk about it much. They don't have to.
But now they're home. And the silence in Jeongguk's apartment is different from the silence on base. It's familiar. It's theirs.
"I forgot how quiet it is here," Jimin says, standing in the middle of the living room.
Jeongguk watches him from the kitchen doorway. Jimin now looks different from the idol Jimin Jeongguk’s known his entire life— his arms thick with muscle, his thighs filling out his bants. But his eyes are the same. Soft. Warm. A little bit sad.
"I forgot how big it feels," Jeongguk says.
Jimin turns to look at him. "It's not big."
"It feels big."
"Because you're used to sharing a room with twelve other people."
"Fourteen."
"Even worse."
Jeongguk laughs, and the sound echoes off the walls. It's strange, hearing his own laugh in this space. It's been so long.
Jimin smiles, small and tired. "We should order food."
"Yeah."
"We should shower first. We smell."
"You smell."
"We both smell."
Jeongguk shrugs. "Fair."
They shower separately— because some boundaries still exist, and just because they shower together in the military doesn’t mean they have to do it even now (right?)— and meet back in the living room wrapped in sweats and hoodies and the particular comfort of being clean.
The food arrives. They eat on the couch, cross-legged, facing each other, the coffee table between them cluttered with containers and chopsticks and the remnants of a meal neither of them had the energy to cook.
"This is good," Jimin says, mouth full.
"You're disgusting."
"You love me."
The words hang in the air.
Jimin freezes, chopsticks halfway to his mouth.
Jeongguk's heart stops.
Then Jimin laughsand shoves the food into his mouth before either of them can say anything else.
"I meant—" Jimin starts, chewing, talking over himself. "You know. As a friend. As a—"
"I know," Jeongguk says.
But he doesn't. Not really.
And from the way Jimin won't meet his eyes, he doesn't either.
The night stretches on.
They find themselves talking about nothings again— about the other members, about the letters they've been getting, about how much they miss sleeping in actual beds. Jimin falls asleep first, curled into the corner of the couch, head tilted back against the cushion.
Jeongguk watches him.
In sleep, Jimin looks younger. Softer. The tension in his jaw disappears, the furrow between his brows smooths out, and he's just— Jimin. The Jimin from the dorms. The Jimin from before. The Jimin from right now.
Jeongguk should wake him. Should send him to the bedroom, or to the guest room, or anywhere that isn't the couch.
Instead, he pulls a blanket over Jimin's shoulders and settles into the other end of the couch.
He doesn't mean to fall asleep.
He wakes to an empty couch.
The blanket is still warm where Jimin was, but Jimin isn't there. The spot beside him is vacant, the pillow slightly dented, the fabric still holding the shape of his body.
Jeongguk blinks in the darkness, disoriented. His phone says 3:23 AM.
Jimin left.
He doesn't remember him leaving. Doesn't remember saying goodnight or watching him go or anything that would explain the sudden absence. One moment they were tangled together, warm and careless, and the next—
The next, Jeongguk is alone.
His chest feels hollow.
He's about to text— about to ask if Jimin got home okay, if something happened, if he should be worried— when his phone buzzes.
A call.
From Jimin.
Jeongguk answers immediately. "Hyung? Are you okay?"
A pause. Then Jimin's voice, small and a little sheepish: "I can't sleep."
Jeongguk's heart slows from panic to something softer. "Why not?"
Another pause, longer this time. Jeongguk can hear the soft rustle of sheets, the distant sound of traffic through Jimin's window.
"I got too used to your snores," Jimin says finally, and Jeongguk can practically hear him wincing at his own words. "I can't sleep without them."
Jeongguk blinks.
Then he laughs in quiet disbelief, and his heart has that familiar warm feeling.
"I don't snore."
"You do."
"I really don't."
"You really do. It's like sleeping next to a lawnmower."
"You came back every night."
"Masochism," Jimin says flatly. "It's a character flaw."
Jeongguk laughs again, and the sound fills his too-empty apartment, bounces off the walls. He can picture Jimin on the other end of the line laying curled up in his own bed, phone pressed to his ear, that small smile he gets when he's trying not to show how he really feels.
"You could have just stayed," Jeongguk says.
"I know."
"Then why didn't you?"
Jimin is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. Vulnerable in a way he rarely allows.
"I thought maybe I should get used to it. Sleeping alone again. Before we come back."
Jeongguk's chest aches.
"Hyung—"
"I know." Jimin's voice is quick, almost apologetic. "It's stupid. I should be—"
"Come over tomorrow."
"What?"
"Come over tomorrow night. Sleep here." Jeongguk pauses, then adds, lighter: "Save your phone battery. It's precious."
Jimin is silent for a heartbeat. Then he laughs a little bit relieved.
"My phone battery."
"Yeah."
"That's what you're worried about."
"It'll quickly deplete if you keep calling me every night."
"I'll buy a new one."
"Just come over, hyung."
The silence that follows isn't empty. It's full of the somethings neither of them is saying, full of the weight of the past months, full of the possibility of the something neither of them has named.
"...okay," Jimin says finally. "Okay. I'll come over."
"Good."
"Okay, start snoring I need to sleep."
"I don't snore."
"You do."
"Goodnight, hyung."
Jimin laughs again, soft and warm. "Goodnight, Jeongguk."
They don't hang up.
Jeongguk listens to Jimin breathe slow, steady, starting to even out. He curls up on the couch, pulling the blanket up to his chin, and closes his eyes.
On the other end of the line, Jimin's breathing deepens.
The next morning, Jimin shows up at Jeongguk's door with coffee and pastries and a sheepish expression.
"I brought breakfast," he says, holding up the bag. "As thanks for letting me crash here."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know." Jimin steps inside, toeing off his shoes. "But your fridge is sad and I felt bad."
"My fridge is perfectly fine."
"Your fridge has leftover pasta, more leftover pasta, and," Jimin opens the refrigerator door and peers inside, counting on his fingers. "additional leftover pasta."
"That's called meal prep."
"That's called a cry for help."
Jimin gives him a look. Jeongguk gives it back, refusing to concede. They hold eye contact for a full three seconds before Jeongguk cracks, laughing, and Jimin grins in triumph.
They eat breakfast at the kitchen table, the morning light filtering through the windows, and it feels so normal and so easy that Jeongguk almost forgets they're on borrowed time.
"So," Jimin says, wiping a crumb from his lower lip with his thumb. "What do you want to do today?"
"I have to see my parents. They're coming up from Busan."
Jimin's expression brightens immediately, a real smile breaking across his face. "Oh! My mom's coming too. She's been talking about it for weeks."
"Your mom is coming to Seoul?"
"She and my dad both. They want to have dinner with me, but she said we should all meet up if your parents are free." Jimin pauses, then adds, almost shyly, "She asked about your mom specifically. She said they should have coffee while they're both here."
Jeongguk's chest warms. His mother and Jimin's mother have been close for years in the way people become close when their children have been through so much together. They text each other. They send gifts on birthdays. When Jeongguk was in the military, Jimin's mom sent care packages addressed to both of them, as if she couldn't imagine sending something to her son without including the other boy she'd watched grow up.
"Mom would love that," Jeongguk says, mentally setting a reminder to bring it up when he sees her later.
"She was asking about your mom last week on the phone. Wanted to know if she'd tried that new skincare line she recommended."
"Did she?"
"I don't know. I'm not the messenger for their skincare conversations when they literally have each other’s phone number."
"You're exactly the messenger for their skincare conversations. You've been the messenger for a decade."
Jeongguk laughs, because he can’t really deny it.
They finish breakfast, wash the dishes together, and go their separate ways for the afternoon— Jimin to meet his parents, Jeongguk to meet his parents. They text each other throughout the day, photos and complaints and small updates.
Jimin
My Mom says she misses my long hair
Jeongguk
My mom asked why you weren't here
JImin
What did you say
Jeongguk
That you were with your mom
She said to bring you next time
Jimin
Your mom likes me more than you
Jeongguk
Obviously
At night, they end up on Jeongguk's couch again.
Jimin's mom sent him home with containers of food— enough for both of them, maybe enough for their entire barrack, really— and they eat sprawled across the cushions, chopsticks clinking, and conversation easy.
"She kept asking about you," Jimin says, not looking up from his rice.
"Your mom?"
"Yeah. Wanted to know if you were eating well. If you were sleeping. If you were taking care of yourself."
"What did you say?"
Jimin glances at him. "I said you were taking care of me."
Jeongguk's heart does something complicated.
"That's not what she asked."
"I know." Jimin looks back down at his food. "But it's what I wanted to say."
The words hang in the air between them, soft and heavy. Jeongguk doesn't know what to do with them and he doesn't really know if he's supposed to respond, to deflect, to change the subject.
So he doesn't.
He just keeps eating.
And Jimin doesn't push.
They fall into a new rhythm after that for the next few days.
The days blur together— family visits during the day, Jeongguk's apartment at night. Jimin shows up with food. Jeongguk makes coffee. They sit on the couch and talk about nothing and everything.
Jeongguk tells Jimin about his parents' visit— about how his mom got teary when she saw him, how his dad pretended not to notice, how his brother kept making jokes to lighten the mood.
Jimin tells Jeongguk about his day— about running into an old friend from their trainee days, about the new cafe that opened near the Hybe building, about the way his mom kept packing food "for both of you" even though Jimin never mentioned staying at Jeongguk's.
"Of course she’d know," Jimin says, almost to himself.
"Know what?"
Jimin shrugs, but his ears are pink. "I don't know. Something."
Jeongguk doesn't ask what he means.
He thinks he already knows.
Taehyung sent them both photos from his own vacation— sun-drenched and happy, missing them. Jin called to complain about military service (he's handling it better than anyone expected, but he'd never admit that). Namjoon sent a voice message that was mostly him rambling about how awful the service is, and they listened to it twice because his voice is soothing and they both miss him.
"Yoongi hyung sent me a song," Jimin says, scrolling through his phone.
"Yeah?"
"Just a demo. Something he's been working on. He said he thought of me when he wrote it."
Jeongguk watches Jimin's face as he talks— the way his eyes soften, the way his voice goes quiet. "That's nice."
"It is." Jimin locks his phone, sets it aside. "I miss them."
"Me too."
"Even though we see them. Even though we talk. I just—" Jimin pauses. "I miss when we were all together. In the dorms. When it was messy and loud and no one had any privacy."
Jeongguk thinks about it all. About the too-loud dorm, the too-small beds, the way Jimin used to appear in his room without warning. About how annoying it was. About how much he misses it.
"Yeah," he says. "Me too."
Apparently, one of Jimin's dance crew members just got engaged. Another one just had a baby. The news makes Jimin quiet in a way that Jeongguk recognizes—not sad, exactly, just aware. Aware of time passing. Aware of lives moving forward while theirs feels suspended.
"Her boyfriend proposed," Jimin says. "The 10-year situationship."
"No way."
"Way. He designed the ring himself. Had it custom made."
"That's—" Jeongguk shakes his head. "That's intense."
"Romantic," Jimin corrects.
"Intense and romantic."
Jimin laughs. "They're good together. Really good. You can see it when they're in the same room— they just... fit."
Jeongguk watches Jimin's face as he talks and the way his eyes go distant, the way his voice softens.
"You want that," Jeongguk says. It's not a question.
Jimin looks at him. For a moment, something flickers across his expression—something vulnerable, something raw.
"Don't we all?" Jimin asks.
Jeongguk doesn't answer.
He doesn't know how he would even begin to answer that.
He does. Of course, he does.
He wants it more than anything.
He just doesn't know if he's allowed in the form his heart truly desires.
The last night comes too quickly.
They order food. Sit on the couch. Fall into the same rhythm that feels like coming home.
"I don't want to go back," Jimin says.
"I know."
"I know we have to. I know it's only a few more months. But I don't—" He stops. Swallows. "I don't want to leave this."
Jeongguk reaches over and takes his hand.
"Then don't think about leaving," he says. "Think about coming back."
Jimin looks at him.
"Coming back?"
"To this. To us." Jeongguk squeezes his hand. "To whatever this is. We're not losing it. We're just—pausing."
Jimin's eyes glisten.
"You always know what to say," he whispers.
"I don't. I'm making it up as I go."
"It works."
"Good."
Jimin laughs and leans into Jeongguk's side.
"Promise me," Jimin says.
"Promise you what?"
"That we'll still have this. After. That it won't—" He struggles for words. "That it won't get lost ever again."
Jeongguk's chest aches.
"I promise," he says.
_______________
The discharge comes on a Wednesday.
Jeongguk doesn't cry. He comes very close, can feel the burn behind his eyes, the pressure in his chest, but he holds it together. Jimin doesn't cry either, but his hand finds Jeongguk's in the chaos of families and cameras and congratulations, and he holds on like he's afraid Jeongguk might disappear.
They've made it.
Eighteen months.
Together.
The other members are there to greet them in private. There are hugs and tears and too many photos. Wide smiles on the faces of everyone, staff, family, friends, passerbys alike.
Jeongguk watches it all through a haze of exhaustion and relief.
But mostly, he watches Jimin.
Jimin, who is smiling the kind of smile that reaches his eyes, that crinkles his nose, that makes him look like the teenager Jeongguk met all those years ago.
They're free.
They're home.
And Jeongguk doesn't know what comes next.
The first few weeks are a blur.
The Are You Sure? trips feel like an extension of something fragile.
Summer in the Alps is different from what Jeongguk expected. Just endless green stretching across mountains that disappear into clouds. The air is crisp and clean, and the sun is warm on their skin in a way that feels almost disorienting after months of military barracks.
They hike through valleys and along ridges, the camera crew trailing behind them, capturing everything. Jimin is full of energy, bounding ahead, stopping to take photos of wildflowers and distant peaks. He turns back to look at Jeongguk, face flushed from exertion, eyes bright.
"Are you coming or not?"
Jeongguk speeds up, falling into step beside him.
Vietnam is different. Hotter. More humid. Chaotic in a way that’s both overwhelming and comforting at the same time.
Jimin loves it.
He drags Jeongguk through narrow alleyways, bargaining for shirts, sampling things neither of them can name. He laughs more in those few days than he has in months, and Jeongguk— Jeongguk follows, because that's what he does, because there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
The cameras capture everything.
Jeongguk wonders what it looks like from the outside.
He wonders if other people see what he feels.
He doesn't ask.
Los Angeles is work.
The songwriting camp is intense with long hours, cramped studios, too much coffee, too little sleep. They're there with new producers, new writers, new people who don't even speak the same language. English fills the rooms, fractured and fast, and Jeongguk finds himself reaching for words he didn't know he had.
It's exhilarating.
He's been waiting for this chance to create without the weight of the military pressing down on him. Every session feels like discovery, every melody a small victory. He works with a Spanish producer who plays chords that make his chest ache. He stays up until 3 AM with a writer, trading lines back and forth until they land on something that feels true.
He's so happy to be back.
This is what he loves about his job the performing, the attention,and also the making. The slow, painstaking process of turning nothing into something. The way a song grows and shifts and becomes its own thing, separate from him, alive in a way that still feels like magic.
They return to Korea in the fall.
The album is slowly, painstakingly, coming together. Demos stack up on his laptop, each one holding a piece of him. Some are good. Some are terrible. Some make him want to delete them immediately and pretend they never existed.
That's how it's supposed to work.
Jeongguk throws himself into the process. Meetings with producers. Late nights in the studio. Endless cups of coffee and the particular exhaustion that he could never get enough of in this lifetime.
The tour is scheduled for 2026 where they’ll be playing instadiums across the world, a reunion none of them thought would happen so soon. There's pressure, of course. Expectations. The weight of everything they're supposed to be.
But there's also pure excitement.
Jeongguk can feel it building, a low hum beneath his skin. The prospect of performing again. Of standing on a stage, of feeling the roar of the crowd, of being exactly where he's supposed to be.
He's been away too long.
He's ready to come back.
# october
Paris is beautiful this time of year.
Jeongguk knows this because he's seen the photos— hundreds of them, flooding his timeline, filling his notifications. Jimin at the airport, Jimin at the show, Jimin laughing with someone Jeongguk doesn't recognize, Jimin looking like he belongs somewhere Jeongguk has never been.
He scrolls past them quickly.
Not because they hurt. Not exactly.
Because he has his own work to do.
October is busy.
Jeongguk flies to Tokyo for a photoshoot, then to Los Angeles for meetings, then back to Seoul for recording sessions that stretch past midnight. His calendar is a wall of color-coded blocks, each one demanding something different, something more.
He loves it.
He's exhausted.
He doesn't have time to think about Paris.
But at night, alone in hotel rooms that all look the same, his thumb finds its way to Jimin's name.
Not to call. Not to text.
Just to look.
The last message is from three days ago, a photo of a pastry Jimin was about to eat, captioned you would like this, you sweet tooth monster. Jeongguk replied with a string of emojis and didn't think about it again until now.
He locks his phone.
Sets it on the nightstand.
Stares at the ceiling.
He's not worried. Not really. They've been through worse than fashion week. They've survived distance before, the kind that felt like it might swallow them whole.
But there's a small voice in the back of his head, quiet and persistent, that whispers: what if this is how it starts again?
A missed call here. A cancelled plan there. The slow, imperceptible drift that happens when two people stop being each other's priority.
He's seen it happen before.
He's felt it happen before.
He doesn't want to feel it again.
Jeongguk picks up his phone.
Opens Jimin's contact.
Types: how's paris?
Deletes it.
Types: miss you.
Deletes that too.
Types: the photos look nice.
Sends it before he can change his mind.
The response comes three minutes later—a string of heart emojis and a photo of Jimin making a silly face in front of the Eiffel Tower, captioned wish you were here.
Jeongguk smiles.
Locks his phone.
Rolls over.
He doesn't know what's going to happen. Doesn't know if the distance will creep in again, slow and insidious, or if they'll find a way to hold on the way they always have.
The apartment smells like gochujang before Jeongguk even opens the door.
He pauses in the hallway, key halfway to the lock, and something in his chest unclenches. He doesn't know how Jimin got in. He doesn't care.
He just wants to be inside.
The door swings open. Warmth spills out— the warmth of cooking, of someone else's presence, of an apartment that no longer feels empty.
Jimin is in the kitchen.
He's wearing one of Jeongguk's oversized gray hoodies, the one that swallows him whole, and his socks don't match, and his hair is still damp from a shower. He's stirring something on the stove, back to the door, humming softly under his breath.
Jeongguk drops his bag by the entrance.
"I'm home," he says.
Jimin turns.
His face does something complicated, almost surprise, then recognition, then a smile so familiar it makes Jeongguk's chest ache.
"You're early."
"Flight was fast."
"You said you'd be back tomorrow."
"I lied."
Jimin laughs, shaking his head, and turns back to the stove. "Well, I hope you're hungry. I made enough for an army."
Jeongguk toes off his shoes and crosses the apartment. He doesn't hug Jimin, but he does stand close enough to feel the warmth radiating off the stove, off Jimin's shoulders, off the space between them.
"It smells good," he says.
"It's just stew."
"Your stew is the best."
Jimin glances at him, eyebrow raised. "You're only saying that because you're hungry."
"I'm saying it because it's true."
Jimin's smile softens. He stirs the pot once more, then steps back, wiping his hands on a towel.
"Go shower," he says. "It'll be ready when you're done."
Jeongguk showers quickly because he doesn't want to waste a single minute of this. The hot water eases the tension in his shoulders, the exhaustion from the flight, the strange loneliness of stiff photoshoots.
When he comes out, dressed in sweats and an old t-shirt, the table is set.
Two bowls. Two spoons. A plate of kimchi in the middle.
Jimin is already sitting, waiting, his hands wrapped around a glass of water.
"Sit," he says. "Eat."
Jeongguk sits.
The stew is perfect as always, spicy and rich, the way only Jimin makes it. And if it could use a little salt, then that’s between him and God because no way in he getting out of his seat in front of Jimin. He thinks he could sit here for an eternity and still not get enough,
They eat in comfortable silence, the kind that doesn't need to be filled, the kind that comes from knowing someone so well you don't have to try.
"Tokyo was good?" Jimin asks eventually.
Jeongguk nods, mouth full. "Busy. Good busy."
"Did you get to see anything? Or just work?"
"Just work. Photoshoot, meetings, back to the hotel." He shrugs. "Same as always."
Jimin hums. "Paris was the same. Lots of shows. Lots of photos. Lots of people I don't know."
Jeongguk looks up at him.
Jimin is focused on his stew, stirring it absently, but there's something in his expression that looks like weariness.
"You looked good," Jeongguk says.
Jimin blinks. "What?"
"In the photos. From Paris. You looked—" Jeongguk pauses, searching for the right word. "You looked like you belonged there."
Jimin's ears go pink.
"I don't know about that."
"I do." Jeongguk takes another bite, casual, like he hasn't just said something that made his own heart race. "The outfit from the Dior show, the blazer with no shirt. That was my favorite thing you’ve ever worn maybe."
Jimin stares at him.
"You saw that?"
"Everyone saw that. It was everywhere."
"I mean—" Jimin stops. Shakes his head. "Never mind."
Jeongguk doesn't push. He just keeps eating, keeps breathing.
After dinner, they move to the couch.
The same couch. The same blanket. The same positions that have become muscle memory over years of nights just like this.
Jimin is scrolling through his phone, legs curled under him, head tilted to the side. Jeongguk is watching him, trying to immortalize this moment.
"Can I see it?" Jimin asks.
"See what?"
"Your photoshoot. The Chanel one."
Jeongguk's heart stutters. "It's not out yet."
"I know. But i also know you have the previews. The ones they sent for approval."
"How do you know about that?"
Jimin looks at him, expression innocent. "You left your email open on my laptop last week."
"Invasion of privacy."
"You were asking for it by not logging out."
Jeongguk sighs, but he's already reaching for his phone. He pulls up the folder with the approved shots, the ones that made him uncomfortable at first, the ones he's still not sure how he feels about.
He hands the phone to Jimin.
Jimin takes it.
And for a moment, neither of them speaks.
Jimin scrolls slowly, his thumb moving carefully, his eyes tracing each image. His expression doesn't change— not much, anyway— but Jeongguk notices the way his breath catches on the third photo. The way his lips part slightly on the fifth.
"Jimin."
"Shh. I'm looking."
Jeongguk watches him look.
It's strange, being seen like this. Not by a photographer, not by a creative director, not by the thousands of strangers who will eventually see these images. Just by Jimin.
Jimin, who knows him.
Jimin, who has seen him at his worst when he’s tired, sick, exhausted, frayed at the edges.
Jimin, who is looking at him now like he's seeing something new.
"You're staring," Jeongguk says.
"You're the one who showed me the photos."
"That's not—"
"Jeongguk." Jimin looks up from the phone. His eyes are soft, dark, unreadable. "You're beautiful."
The word lands like a stone in still water.
Jeongguk's throat goes dry.
"Flattery."
"I'm not."
"Jimin—"
"I'm not," Jimin repeats. His voice is quiet, certain. "The sky is blue, water is wet, and Jeon Jeongguk is beautiful"
Jeongguk doesn't know what to do with his hands.
He doesn't know what to do with his face, with his heart, with the way Jimin is looking at him.
So he does the only thing he can think of.
He takes the phone back.
Closes the folder.
Locks the screen.
"Okay," he says. "That's enough."
Jimin laughs sounds soft, almost breathless as he leans back against the couch.
"Okay," Jimin agrees.
They just sit there, side by side, the blanket pulled over their legs, the city humming outside the window, some random playlist playing in the background.
"I missed you," Jimin says eventually.
"I was only gone four days."
"I know." Jimin shrugs. "I still missed you."
Jeongguk's chest aches.
"I missed you too," he says.
Jimin nods, like that settles something, and leans his head against Jeongguk's shoulder.
Jeongguk doesn't move.
He doesn't want to.
They sit like that for a long time—long enough for the city to grow quieter, for the space between them to feel smaller than it has in years.
Jimin is warm against his side.
His breathing is slow, even.
Jeongguk closes his eyes and lets himself have this.
Just this.
For now.
The comeback is announced in January, and Jeongguk watches the news break on his phone from the passenger seat of his manager's car, still half-asleep after an overnight recording session. The notifications come in waves, first a trickle, then a flood, his name trending alongside the rest of the members within minutes of the post going live. There's a familiar rush that comes with it, the sudden sharp awareness that the world is watching again, that millions of people are waiting for something he helped create.
Somewhere between debut and now, the weight of attention stopped feeling like pressure and started feeling like weather. Never something he can't control, only dress for, only learn to move through without being knocked down.
He sets his phone face-down on the seat and watches Seoul blur past the window. The sky is pale, streaked with the first light of morning, and he's so tired his bones feel like they're made of something heavier than usual. But at least it's a good tired, the kind that comes from staying up until 3 AM working on a bridge that finally, finally clicked into place. The kind that means he's doing something he loves enough to push beyond every expectation.
The album is called Arirang, because of the folk song, because of what the word represents. A longing. A return. The strange, aching beauty of coming home to something you never really left. Jeongguk has spent months thinking about that concept, turning it over in his mind like a stone he can't quite identify, and somewhere along the way he realized that Arirang isn't just about the group or the fans or the years they've spent away. It's about him. About the distance between who he was when this all started and who he's becoming right now. About the fact that he's still traveling, still climbing some invisible mountain, still not sure where exactly the summit is, but content with just climbing.
He wrote four songs for the album, all of which he absolutely adores. It’s experimental, it’s loud, it’s everything he’s ever wanted to work on for forever but never had the chance to. It’s new, and new, Jeongguk is learning, isn’t as scary as it used to be.
He decides he likes this new.
The interview is in a studio in Gangnam, all dark walls and soft, warm lighting and the careful arrangement of furniture designed to look casual but isn't. The host is the same one who's been interviewing them for years, the man who remembers what they were like years ago, someone who’s seen them change, seen them grow, seen them become this version of BTS. He’s kind in a way that feels genuine, and Jeongguk is grateful for small mercies, for familiar faces, for anything that makes these obligations feel less like performances.
Jimin is seated on the dark red sofa. Jeongguk is towards the back on the not really comfortable high chairs. There’s careful architecture of space that someone who doesn’t really know them decided on. They don't question it anymore, any of them. It's just part of the choreography now, the same way formations on stage are part of the choreography, one of those things you learn to execute without thinking, something you stop resenting because resentment takes energy you don't have.
Jeongguk answers questions about the album with practiced ease, his voice steady even when he's talking about things that feel too personal for a television studio. He talks, his answers are honest but guarded, but more than that, he listens and takes in the privilege of being in the same space as his 7 best friends again.
He catches Jimin's eye once, his head tilted back, in the middle of a question about their time in the military. Jimin gives a small, brief, private smile and something in Jeongguk's chest settles at the sight of it. The distance between them doesn't feel like punishment anymore. It doesn't feel like erasure or caution or any of the things it used to mean. It just feels like distance, neutral and manageable, the space between two people who know exactly where the other one is.
The pressure is different now than it used to be.
Before the military, fame felt like a wave that they could ride, outrun, survive through sheer force of will. Jeongguk spent years holding his breath underwater, waiting for the current to slow, never quite sure if he'd make it to the surface in time. There were moments when he didn't think he would.
Now fame is just another part of learning to live with. Something that exists outside of him, something he can observe without being consumed by. He's not immune and he doesn’t think any of them will ever be immune, but he knows they learned to carry it differently. He himself has learned that he doesn't have to carry it at all, not the way he used to, not the way that breaks your back and leaves you wondering why you're still standing.
Jeongguk is twenty-eight now. He's been an idol for almost more than half his life. He's starting to understand who he is when the cameras aren't rolling, when the makeup is off, when the only person he has to perform for is himself. It's a slow understanding, tentative and incomplete, but it's his. No one gave it to him. No one assigned it. He built it himself, piece by piece, in all the spaces where the world wasn't looking.
The photoshoot is for the album concept, scheduled for a gray Tuesday in a studio on the outskirts of Seoul. The theme is dark with sharp lines, harsh shadows, the kind of styling that makes him look older than he is, harder than he feels, more like the person he's becoming than the person he's been.
The creative director wants him to smolder, which is a direction Jeongguk has never known how to follow. He can't smolder on command. He can't manufacture intensity or summon mystery out of thin air. So he thinks about nothing instead. He empties his mind and lets his face go still, and in that stillness, something else rises to the surface.
The photographer loves it.
"Perfect," she says, shutter clicking. "Stay right there. Don't move."
Yoongi comes to the studio on a Tuesday, unannounced and unapologetic, appearing in the doorway like a specter with a coffee in hand and dark circles under his eyes. He doesn't knock or announce himself— just leans against the frame, watching, waiting for Jeongguk to notice him.
"Hyung," Jeongguk says, pulling his headphones off. The track cuts mid-phrase, leaving the room abruptly silent. "What are you doing here?"
"Came to check on you." Yoongi's voice is low, the way it always is when he's tired, but there's something beneath it— something that might be concern or might just be curiosity. It's hard to tell with Yoongi. It's always been hard to tell.
"I'm fine."
"Mmm." Yoongi steps inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He doesn't sit—just settles against the wall, coffee cradled in both hands, gaze drifting to the monitors. "How's the dancing going?"
"Good. Almost got it."
"Nervous?"
Jeongguk considers the question. It's not the first time someone has asked him that, and it won't be the last, but for some reason, coming from Yoongi, it feels like it deserves an honest answer. "No," he says finally. "Not nervous. Maybe something else. I don't know."
Yoongi nods slowly, like that makes perfect sense. "That's normal," he says. "The something else. It doesn't go away. You just learn to live with it."
They're quiet for a moment, the silence comfortable in a way it wouldn't be with anyone else. Jeongguk's track is still playing through the monitors— a rough mix, unfinished, full of gaps where vocals haven't been added yet. It’s not meant to be listened to by anyone, right now, not meant for any projects, not meant to see the light of day. It sounds vulnerable like this, exposed. Like something that isn't ready to be seen.
"I like this one," Yoongi says, nodding toward the speakers.
Jeongguk blinks, surprised. "Really?"
"It's different. Doesn't sound like anything you wrote in LA."
Jeongguk looks at the screen and at the waveform, the midi notes, the shape of something he built from nothing. It's the song about the space in between, the one he hasn't let anyone else hear. "It's about—" He stops. Starts again, choosing words carefully. "It's about wanting things you're not sure you're allowed to want."
Yoongi doesn't ask what things. He doesn't pry or push or try to extract meaning that isn't offered. He just nods, the way he always does, the way that makes Jeongguk feel like he's been understood without having to explain.
"Good," Yoongi says. "Keep writing."
He leaves as quietly as he came, coffee still warm in his hands, and Jeongguk watches him go with something like gratitude sitting heavy in his chest. Yoongi has never been the member who talks the most or touches the most or shows up in the most obvious ways. But he shows up. He always shows up. And sometimes, that's enough.
The tour rehearsals start in March, in a warehouse on the edge of Seoul that's been converted into a practice space. The ceilings are high, the floors are sprung, and the walls are covered in mirrors that reflect the same image a hundred times over with a hundred versions of Jeongguk, all of them moving in sync, all of them trying to remember choreography that hasn't been performed in years.
The schedule is brutal. Months on the road, stadiums across the world, the kind of relentless pace that would have terrified him a few years ago. Now it just feels like coming home.
He stands on the temporary stage they've built for rehearsals and it’s empty now, just risers and tape marks and the ghost of the crowd to come. He feels something swell in his chest. It's not nervousness. It's not pressure. It's the quiet, certain knowledge that this is what he was made for.
The moment when everything else falls away and there's just music, just movement, just the electric hum of being exactly where he's supposed to be. He's spent years chasing that feeling, losing it, finding it again. He's learned that it doesn't come from award shows or chart positions or any of the external markers of success. It comes from standing on a stage, from feeling the vibration of the bass through the floor, from knowing that for a few hours, nothing else matters.
Jimin finds him there, an hour before rehearsals are supposed to start, when the warehouse is still mostly empty and the only light comes from the overhead fluorescents.
"You're early," Jimin says, footsteps echoing on the wood floor.
"Couldn't wait to start."
"Nervous?"
Jeongguk shakes his head. He's not nervous. He's something closer to anticipation, to readiness, to the strange electric buzz of knowing something important is about to happen. "Excited," he says, because that's the closest word he has.
Jimin smiles that smile, the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, the one that's been the same since they were teenagers. "Me too," he says.
They stand together on the empty stage, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the empty spaces in front of them. In a few weeks, those spaces will be full. The noise will be deafening. The lights will be so bright they'll wash out everything except the moment itself. But right now, in the quiet of the warehouse, there's just the two of them, the stage, the restlessness.
"We're really doing this," Jimin says.
"We're really doing it."
"It's going to be loud."
"It's going to be exhausting."
"It's going to be everything."
Jeongguk looks at the profile he knows better than his own reflection, at the hands that have held his through more than he can count, at the person who has been beside him for every single step of this impossible, beautiful, exhausting journey. "Yeah," he says. "It is."
The interview circuit is relentless in the weeks leading up to the album release. Music shows, variety programs, radio spots and it’s somehow the same questions in different rooms, the same answers in different outfits. Jeongguk has done this enough times that his body knows what to do even when his mind wanders, which it does more often than he'd like to admit.
He thinks about the album when his body is on autopilot. About the songs he wrote, the ones he didn't, the way each track fits together like pieces of a puzzle he didn't know he was solving. He thinks about the tour, about the staging they've been designing, about the moment when they'll finally perform these songs in front of people who have been waiting for years. He thinks about the person he's becoming, the one who doesn't need to be everything to everyone, the one who's finally learning to take up space without apologizing for it.
The album drops on the first day of spring, and Jeongguk doesn't check the charts.
He doesn't read the reviews or scroll through the comments or analyze the streaming numbers. He doesn't do any of the things he used to do, the things that kept him up at night, the things that turned music into math and art into competition.
Instead, he sits in his studio alone, the lights dim, the monitors warm. He puts on headphones and listens to the album from start to finish— the same way he's been listening to music since he was a teenager, before anyone was watching.
His songs. Their songs. The story they've been trying to tell for years, the one that goes deeper than lyrics and melodies, the one that lives in the spaces between notes.
When it ends, he closes his eyes and lets the silence settle around him.
He thinks about the dorm that was too loud and the bed that was never quite his own, about the boy with pink hair who couldn't sleep without someone beside him, about the pressure that felt like drowning and the moments of grace that kept him afloat.
He thinks about the distance, the silence, the apartment that echoed when he was alone. About the phone calls that went unanswered and the promises that felt like they were breaking. About the slow, painful work of finding his way back to himself.
He thinks about the phone calls that did get answered, the late-night conversations in the dark, the promise to come back to each other no matter what.
He thinks about the person he's become, the man that’s tired sometimes, uncertain sometimes, but whole in a way he’s never been before in a life he's building, the one that belongs to him, the one that no one else gets to define.
He thinks about Jimin and feels gratitude and the recognition that some people are meant to be in your life, that some bonds survive everything you throw at them, that love doesn't have to look like anything except showing up.
He's not done. He's not finished. There's still so much he doesn't know, so much he hasn't figured out.
The first show of the tour is in Goyang, on a night in late spring when the air is warm and the sky is full of clouds and the stadium is fuller than Jeongguk has ever seen it.
The sea of light sticks stretches from the stage to the farthest seats, thousands of them glowing in the dark like stars brought down to earth. The roar of the crowd is deafening even from the wings, it all vibrates through his chest and settles in his bones.
Jeongguk stands in the shadows, heart pounding, hands steady. He's not nervous, at least not anymore, not after all these years.
Jimin is beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touch, close enough that Jeongguk can feel the warmth of him even in the cool darkness of the wings.
"You ready?" Jimin asks.
"Yeah."
"Scared?"
Jeongguk shakes his head. He's not scared. He's excited. He's grateful. He's so full of something he can't name that he thinks he might burst from it. "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be," he says.
Jimin's hand finds his in the darkness for just a second, just long enough to squeeze once, just long enough to say everything that doesn't need to be said out loud.
"Together," Jimin says.
"Together," Jeongguk agrees.
The lights go down. The crowd roars. And Jeongguk steps onto the stage, into the light, into the life he's chosen for himself.
Song by song. Step by step. Day by day.
He's still figuring it out.
But he's finally, finally living it.
_______________
The crowd is still ringing in his ears.
Jeongguk can still feel them somewhere deep in his chest where the adrenaline lives. The roar of seventy thousand people, the glow of light sticks moving in perfect sync, the weight of a stadium holding its breath and then exhaling all at once. It's been five months of this. Five months of cities blurring together, of airports and hotel rooms and stages that look the same but feel different every time. Five months of exhaustion so complete it circles back around to something like euphoria.
He's tired. He's so tired. He's also the happiest he's been in years.
The afterparty is at the hotel bar, a sleek rooftop space with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the Los Angeles skyline. Someone reserved the whole thing, their manager, probably, or maybe one of the tour coordinators, and the entire staff is here, along with the members, along with the dancers who have become family over months of hot vans and shared meals and the intimacy of performing together night after night.
Jeongguk is drunk.
Not the stumbling and slurring drunk yet. But warm-drunk, loose-drunk, the kind of drunk that makes his limbs feel heavy and his thoughts feel slow and his heart feel like it's sitting right at the surface of his skin. Someone keeps handing him drinks. He keeps drinking them. It's his birthday, after all. Twenty-nine years old.
He's been an idol for more than half his life.
Hoseok is telling a story at the end of the bar, arms waving, face flushed, making everyone laugh. Jin is nursing a whiskey and pretending not to be emotional about the cake someone produced earlier with a ridiculous amount of candles, with sparklers and too much icing, the kind of cake that exists purely for photos. Namjoon is deep in conversation with one of the dancers from their crew, gesturing emphatically about something Jeongguk can't hear. Taehyung is dancing pulling one of their managers into a spin that makes everyone around them cheer.
Yoongi is sitting in the corner, the fondest smile on his face as he looks around the bar, and he raises his glass when Jeongguk catches his eye. Jeongguk raises his back.
Jimin is beside him.
Jimin has been beside him all night, close enough that their elbows brush when they move, close enough that Jeongguk can feel the warmth of him through the layers of fabric. Jimin is drunk too, pink-cheeked, bright-eyed, laughing at everything and nothing. He keeps leaning into Jeongguk's space, drawn by gravity or habit or something Jeongguk doesn't have a name for.
"Happy birthday," Jimin says for the tenth time, grinning.
"You said that already."
"I only get to say it once a year, so let me have my fill."
Jeongguk laughs, and the sound feels good. "You're ridiculous."
"You're twenty-nine."
"You're thirty-one in five weeks."
Jimin's grin softens into something smaller, more private. "We're old."
"What happened to young forever, hm?"
"We're not young."
Jeongguk looks at him and at the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the way his eyes catch the light from the windows. "Nah," he argues. "We're getting older, not old."
The night stretches on.
More drinks. More stories. Someone starts a chant for Jeongguk that makes his face burn with embarrassment and pleasure. The dancers present him with a card they all signed, filled with messages in Korean and English and a few in languages he doesn't even recognize. He reads them one by one, holding the card carefully, feeling something in his chest expand until it almost hurts.
One of the makeup artist tells a story about the first time she saw BTS perform, years ago, before she ever imagined she'd be working with them behind the stages. "I was in the nosebleeds," she says, laughing. "I could barely see your faces. And now I'm here. On your birthday. In Los Angeles."
Jeongguk doesn't know what to say to that. He just nods, and takes a sip of his drink, and lets the moment wash over him.
At some point, the crowd thins. Staff members drift back to their rooms, citing early flights or just the bone-deep exhaustion of tour life. The dancers follow, one by one, until it's just the members and a few lingering staff lingering at the bar.
Jeongguk is still drunk. Less than before, maybe, the sharp edge of it worn down by time and the slow realization that he should probably stop, but still warm, still loose, still feeling like the world is wrapped in something soft.
Jimin tugs at his sleeve.
"Come on," Jimin says.
"Where?"
"Bed." Jimin's eyes are heavy-lidded, tired in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol. "We have a concert tomorrow."
Jeongguk knows this. He knows the schedule, knows the call time, knows exactly how many hours of sleep he won't get. But he also knows that Jimin is looking at him with that particular expression— the one he’s still learning, the one he thinks means I don't want to be alone— and Jeongguk has never been able to say no to that face.
"Okay," he says.
They don't always share a room on tour.
Sometimes they do. Most times they don’t. They've learned to be okay with it over the years eventually learned that distance doesn't have to mean drifting, that space can be temporary, space can be good, space doesn’t have to mean silence.
But tonight, Jeongguk follows Jimin down the hallway to his room without discussion. It's not a question. It's not even a choice. It's just what they do when the weight of everything gets too heavy to carry alone.
Jimin's room is on the thirty-second floor, with windows that face the ocean and a bed that's too big for one person and too small for two. Jeongguk has been here before— last month in Chicago, two months before that in Busan, in some of the cities where the exhaustion caught up to them at the same time.
Jimin kicks off his shoes by the door and collapses onto the bed face-first, still fully dressed, his voice muffled by the comforter. "I'm never drinking again."
"You say that every time."
"This time I mean it."
"You never mean it."
Jimin rolls over, staring at the ceiling, and Jeongguk watches him from the doorway. The room is dark except for the lights of the city filtering through the sheer curtains. It's quiet, save for the sound of chatter down the hallway, the hum of the AC, the occasional dripping water from the tap.
Jeongguk closes the door. Locks it. Toes off his own shoes.
He should change. Should brush his teeth. Should do any of the small rituals that make up the architecture of his days.
Instead, he lies down next to Jimin, still wearing the concert merch that’s starting to smell like sweat and bar, and stares at the same ceiling.
For a long time, neither of them speaks.
The city hums outside. The bed is soft beneath them. Jeongguk's head is spinning, just slightly, from the alcohol and the adrenaline crash and the strange, hollow feeling that always comes after something good.
Birthday blues, he has learned over the years. The letdown after the celebration. The quiet that follows the noise.
He's twenty-nine. He's been doing this since he was fifteen. He loves his life— he does, genuinely, with no resentment and no regrets— but sometimes, in the aftermath of something joyful, he feels the weight of all those years pressing down on him. The sacrifices. The missed moments. The version of himself that might have existed if he'd chosen a different path.
He doesn't regret it. He wouldn't trade it.
Butt.
"You're quiet," Jimin says.
"So are you."
"I'm tired."
"Me too."
Jimin turns his head on the pillow, looking at him. His eyes are dark in the low light, unreadable. "What are you thinking about?"
Jeongguk considers lying. Considers deflecting. Considers making a joke to lighten the moment, the way he always does when things feel too heavy.
But he's drunk. And he's tired. And it's his birthday, and Jimin is looking at him like he is the center of his universe.
"Everything," he says. "Nothing. I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"That's the only answer I have."
Jimin is quiet for a moment, and Jeongguk can’t see him in the dark, but can feel him thinking, can feel it in the way he knows Jimin’s brow furrows, the way his mouth presses together. "Is it the birthday thing?"
"What birthday thing?"
"The thing where you get sad even though you're happy. The thing where you think about time passing and wonder if you're doing it right."
Jeongguk blinks. "How do you know about that?"
"Because I have it too." Jimin's voice is soft, almost a whisper. "Every year. Every birthday. Every time something good happens and then ends. I sit there afterwards and think— was that it? Is that all there is?"
Jeongguk's chest aches.
"Yeah," he says. "That's exactly it."
They lie there for a while longer..
Jeongguk thinks about being fifteen years old and terrified, about a cramped dorm with too many bodies, too many dreams, too much anger, too much frustration, and not enough of anything, about a boy with colorful hair who couldn't sleep without someone beside him.
He thinks about the pressure, about the weight, about the way Jimin used to appear in his room without asking, like he belonged there and about how Jeongguk never once considered telling him to leave.
He thinks about being alone, quiet apartments, distance, silence, and the hollow hollow heart.
He thinks about watching Jimin from across the room and not knowing how to close the gap.
He thinks about the military, phone calls, a promise to come back.
He thinks about this room, this bed, this person who has been beside him for more than half his life, this person he’s been in love with since the very beginning.
"Jimin," he says.
"Yeah?"
"I always thought—" He stops. Starts again. The words feel fragile, like they might break if he handles them wrong. "I always thought there'd be something more between us."
The silence that follows is different from the ones before. It's the kind of silence that happens when something shifts, when the ground moves beneath your feet and you're not sure if you're falling or flying.
Jimin turns to face him fully, propping himself up on one elbow. His expression is unreadable in the dim light, but his voice is steady.
"Me too," Jimin says.
Jeongguk's heart stops.
Or maybe it doesn't stop. Maybe it just beats differently now with a slower, heavier beat like it's trying to make room for something new.
"What?" he says, because he needs to hear it again.
"Me too," Jimin repeats. "I always thought—" He pauses, swallows. "I always thought there would be something. Between us. I kept waiting for it for years."
Jeongguk stares at him.
The city hums outside. The bed is soft beneath them. Jeongguk is drunk and tired and so full of something he can't name that he thinks he might combust.
"Why didn't you say anything?" he asks.
"Same reason you didn't." Jimin shrugs, small and almost helpless. "I didn't know if you felt it too. I didn't want to ruin what we had. I kept telling myself it was just— I don't know. Codependency, maybe. Comfort. The way we grew up together. The way we needed each other."
"It wasn't just that," Jeongguk says.
"No," Jimin agrees. "It wasn't."
They don't kiss.
They don't touch, don't move, don't do any of the things Jeongguk has imagined in the quiet hours of too many nights. They just lie there, facing each other, the space between them small enough that Jeongguk can feel Jimin's breath on his lips.
"I thought about it," Jeongguk says. "Whenever I was with someone else. I'd think— this isn't right. This isn't him."
Jimin's eyes glisten. "Me too."
"I compared everyone to you."
"Me too."
"And they never— "
"They never measured up." Jimin's voice cracks, just slightly. "No one ever measured up."
Jeongguk's chest is so full it hurts. He thinks about all the years they wasted— not wasted, maybe, but spent dancing around each other, reaching and pulling back, wanting and pretending not to. He thinks about all the times he could have said something. Should have said something. Didn't, because he was scared.
"I don't know what to do with this," Jeongguk admits. "I don't know what happens now."
Jimin is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches out with a slow, tentative touch like he's asking permission and rests his hand on Jeongguk's chest. Right over his heart.
"Nothing," Jimin says. "Nothing happens now."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—" Jimin pauses, searching for words. "We're in the middle of a tour. We have a concert tomorrow. We have months of dates left and then who knows what. We're running on adrenaline and caffeine and the kind of exhaustion that makes you crazy."
Jeongguk listens. Jimin's hand is warm on his chest, grounding him.
"I'm not saying I don't want—" Jimin stops. Starts again. "I'm not saying we shouldn't talk about this. We should. We will. But not tonight. Not when we're drunk and tired and have to be on stage in twelve hours."
Jeongguk nods slowly. He understands. He doesn't like it, doesn't like the idea of putting this conversation back in a box, of waiting even longer for something he's already waited more than a decade for, but he does understands.
"So we just—" He gestures vaguely. "Forget about it?"
"No." Jimin's voice is firm. "We don't forget. We just... put it somewhere safe. For later. When everything slows down."
"When does everything slow down?"
Jimin laughs soft, a little sad. "I don't know. Maybe never. But we'll make time. We'll find a moment. We'll figure it out. I promise"
Jeongguk looks at him— at the person who has been through everything, through every version of himself he's ever been. He thinks about all the things he wants to say, all the things he's been holding in, all the years of wanting and waiting and wondering.
"Okay," he says finally. "Okay."
They don't move.
Jimin's hand stays on Jeongguk's chest, warm and steady. Their faces are close— close enough that Jeongguk can see the flecks of gold in Jimin's eyes, the small scar near his eyebrow, the way his lips part slightly when he breathes.
"I'm glad we said it," Jimin whispers.
"Me too."
"Even if we can't do anything about it yet."
"Me too."
Jimin smiles "You keep saying that."
"Because I keep meaning it."
Jimin's smile widens, just a fraction. He shifts closer, tucking himself against Jeongguk's side the way he has a thousand times before. His head finds its place on Jeongguk's shoulder, his arm drapes across Jeongguk's chest, and they fit together like they always have.
Like they were made to.
Jeongguk wraps his arms around Jimin and holds on.
They don't kiss. They don't confess further. They don't make any promises they know they can't keep.
They just hold each other, the way they always have, the way they always will.
And something about it feels different now, somehow. Like a weight has been lifted, like a door has been opened, like the thing they've been carrying between them for years has finally been named.
Jeongguk is still drunk. Still tired. Still full of birthday blues and the strange, aching awareness of time passing.
But Jimin’s warm leaning on him, pressed against his side. Jimin's heartbeat is steady beneath his palm. And for the first time in years, Jeongguk doesn't feel like his heart isn’t waiting for that something.
The alcohol fades slowly, replaced by the bone-deep exhaustion of tour life. Jeongguk's limbs are heavy, his thoughts are slow, and the world outside the window has gone quiet in that way cities do in the earliest hours of morning.
Jimin is still awake. Jeongguk can tell by the way he breathes not the deeply, even rhythm of sleep, but something more deliberate, more aware.
"Jimin."
"Mm?"
"Are you sober?"
A pause. "Mostly. You?"
"Mostly."
Jimin shifts, lifting his head to look at him. His eyes are clearer now, less glassy, and there's that something in them.
"Does it change anything?" Jimin asks. "Being sober?"
Jeongguk considers the question. The alcohol is gone, or close to it. The adrenaline has faded. All that's left is the truth of what they said to each other, sitting between them like something fragile and precious.
"No," he says finally. "It doesn't change anything."
Jimin searches his face for a long moment. Then he nods, seemingly satisfied, and settles back against Jeongguk's chest.
"Good," Jimin says. "I didn't want it to be the alcohol talking."
"It wasn't."
"I know." Jimin's voice is soft, almost sleepy. "I just wanted to hear you say it."
They fall asleep like that, tangled together, limbs intertwined, the blanket pulled up to their chins. The city lights filter through the curtains, casting shadows on the walls. The bed is too small for two people, but they've never cared about that.
He thinks about the conversation they just had. About the years of wanting and waiting and wondering. About the fact that they finally, finally acknowledged it out loud, to each other, in a hotel room in Los Angeles on his twenty-ninth birthday.
He thinks about what comes next. About the tour, about the months ahead, about the song he wants to write, about the conversation they still need to have when everything slows down.
He doesn't know when that will be. Doesn't know if it will be weeks or months or longer. Doesn't know what they'll say when they finally have the time and space to figure it out.
But Jimin is in his arms.
Jimin is warm and real and here.
He closes his eyes and holds on tighter.
"Goodnight, Jimin."
"Goodnight, Jeongguk."
Jimin's voice is sleepy, muffled against his chest. Jeongguk feels the words more than he hears them.
_______________
The concert ended three days ago, putting an end to their 14 month long stadium tour.
Life feels different now than it did last year when they started their tour. Jeongguk has been sleeping in, eating whatever he wants, doing absolutely nothing that resembles work. His body is still adjusting to the absence of adrenaline, that familiar but still strange hollow feeling that comes after something big ends.
Fourteen months of touring. Fourteen months of cameras and signs and music that blurred together into one long, beautiful, exhausting dream.
And now, things are slowing down.
Not stopping. Never stopping. But slowing enough that they can breathe.
Jimin shows up at his apartment on a Tuesday afternoon with a bag of groceries and no explanation. Jeongguk lets him in without asking why. He doesn't need to ask. That's not how they work anymore.
"I'm making dinner," Jimin announces, kicking off his shoes. "You're going to sit there and let me."
"I have to remind you that I’m the better chef amongst us and you haven’t stepped into a kitchen for more than a year."
"Which is why you’re gonna shut up and cut the onions for me."
Jeongguk watches him move through the kitchen while opening cabinets, finding pots, arranging ingredients on the counter with the ease of someone who's done this a hundred times before. The afternoon light comes through the windows, soft and golden, catching the edges of Jimin's profile.
He looks comfortable here.
He looks like he belongs.
They eat at the dining table and the food is good, better than good, the kind of meal that makes Jeongguk feel like he's been taking care of himself wrong his entire adult life.
"You're staring," Jimin says, not looking up from his bowl.
"I'm not staring."
"You're doing the thing where you watch me eat."
"I'm appreciating your cooking."
"You're being weird."
"You're being weird."
Jimin looks up, and there it is— that smile, the one that's been the same since they were teenagers, the one that makes Jeongguk's chest feel too small for his rapidly beating heart.
"Fine," Jimin says. "We're both weird."
"Agreed."
After dinner, they move to the couch.
The same couch. The same blanket. The same positions that have become muscle memory over years of nights just like this. Jimin curls into the corner, legs tucked under him, and Jeongguk sits close enough that their knees touch.
Outside, the sun is starting to set. Inside, the world is quiet.
"We should talk," Jimin says.
Jeongguk's heart does something complicated.
"Yeah," he says. "We should."
Jimin takes a breath. Lets it out slowly.
"It's been months," he says. "Since Los Angeles. Since we—" He gestures vaguely. "Since we said what we said."
"Nine months," Jeongguk says.
Jimin blinks. "You were counting?"
"I didn't not count."
Jimin laughs— soft, surprised— and something in the room relaxes.
"Nine months," Jimin repeats. "And we haven't talked about it. Not really. We've just been—"
"Touring."
"Touring. Working. Surviving." Jimin pauses. "Putting it somewhere safe. Like we said we would."
Jeongguk nods. They have been putting it somewhere safe. Tucking it away in the spaces between concerts, in the quiet moments in hotel rooms, in the way they hold each other a little tighter than they used to. It's been there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment.
"I think now is the right moment," Jeongguk says.
Jimin looks at him. "You think?"
"I don't know. But I'm tired of waiting."
Jimin shifts on the couch, turning to face him fully. His expression is serious in the way it gets when Jimin’s being thoughtful, careful, the way he gets when something is truly important to him.
"I've thought about it a lot," Jimin says. "The risks. What it would mean. For us. For the group. For everything we've built."
Jeongguk nods. He's thought about it too. Of course he has. He's thought about nothing else for nine months.
"It could go wrong," Jimin continues. "It could mess things up. We could lose—" He stops. Swallows. "We could lose each other. Not because we stop caring. Because it's too much. Because the pressure might get too high."
"I know."
"And we're not—" Jimin searches for words. "We're not the same people we were when we were younger. We've changed. We're still changing. What if we try and it doesn't work? What if we're not good at this?"
Jeongguk listens. He lets Jimin say all the things that need to be said, all the fears and doubts and what-ifs that have been living in both of them for months.
"Do you want to know what I think?" Jeongguk asks when Jimin is done.
Jimin nods.
"I think we've already been doing this," Jeongguk says. "For years. Without the label. Without the conversation. We've been choosing each other— every day, every tour, every time we come back to each other after distance or fear or whatever else gets in the way."
Jimin's expression softens.
"I think," Jeongguk continues, "that we're not going to mess it up because we've already proven we won't. We've been through worse. We've survived worse. And we're still here."
Jimin is quiet for a long moment.
The sun dips lower outside, painting the room in shades of orange and gold. Jeongguk can hear the distant sound of traffic, the hum of the city, the small ordinary noises that make up the background of his life.
"You make it sound simple," Jimin says finally.
"It's not simple."
"No?"
"No. But it's not complicated either." Jeongguk reaches over and takes Jimin's hand. It's warm, familiar, the same hand he's held a thousand times before. "It's just us. It's always been just us."
Jimin looks down at their joined hands. His thumb moves, tracing small circles on Jeongguk's skin.
"I want to try," Jimin says quietly. "I want to try. With you."
Jeongguk's heart soars.
"I want to try too," he says.
Jimin shifts closer, close enough that their shoulders press together, close enough that Jeongguk can feel his warmth.
"So," Jimin says. "What now?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—" Jimin laughs, a little breathless. "We've been dancing around this for fourteen years. We finally say we want to try. What do we do?"
Jeongguk considers the question.
"I don't know," he admits. "I've never done this before."
"Done what?"
"Been with someone I actually—" He stops. The word feels too big, too fragile, not ready to be said out loud. "I’ve never dated my best friend before."
Jimin's smile is soft, understanding.
"Me neither," he says. "So we figure it out together."
"Together," Jeongguk agrees.
They sit in silence for a while, watching the sunset paint the room in gold. Jeongguk's hand is still in Jimin's, and neither of them makes a move to let go.
"Can I tell you something?" Jimin asks.
"Always."
"I'm scared."
Jeongguk turns to look at him. Jimin's face is open, vulnerable, the way he only lets himself be in moments like this, when the mask is set aside, the walls are lowered, nothing left but the person underneath.
"Of what?" Jeongguk asks.
Jimin is quiet for a moment, his thumb still tracing those small circles on Jeongguk's skin. "Of wanting this so much that I stop being careful. Of waking up in a year and realizing I've built my whole world around you and forgotten how to stand on my own."
Jeongguk doesn't answer immediately. He lets the words settle, giving them a space to grow and be acknowledged.
"But that's not what actually scares me," Jimin continues, quieter now. "What scares me is that I don't think I'd mind. If that happened. If I built my world around you. And I don't know if that's love or if that's just— habit. Fear. The easiest thing to do."
"You've never done the easiest thing," Jeongguk says.
"Maybe I want to. For once."
Jeongguk turns Jimin's hand over in his, palm up, studying the lines there like they might hold answers to everything. "I think about that too," he admits. "Whether I want this because it's you, or because you're what I know. Whether I'm choosing you or just... not choosing anyone else."
Jimin's breath catches slightly.
"But then I remember that there was a time when–" Jeongguk continues. "I remember being away from you. I remember what it felt like to not have you there. And I don't think habit feels like that. I don't think fear feels like that."
"What does it feel like?"
Jeongguk looks up from Jimin's palm, meets his eyes. "It feels like I'm missing a part of myself. Not because I'm incomplete without you. Because you're—" He pauses, searching for words that don't exist. "You're not a habit, Jimin. You're a choice. The one I keep making. Every day. Even when it's hard."
Jimin's eyes are bright, glistening.
"That's not scary," Jimin whispers.
"No?"
"No. That's just—" He laughs, soft and wondering. "That's just true."
Jeongguk squeezes his hand.
"So stop being scared," he says.
"I can't. That's not how fear works."
"Then be scared with me." Jeongguk shifts closer, close enough that their foreheads almost touch. "We'll figure it out. We always do."
Jimin closes his eyes. When he opens them, something in his expression has settled.
"Okay," Jimin says. "Okay."
He leans in, just slightly, and rests his forehead against Jeongguk's.
They stay like that for a long moment— breathing the same air, sharing the same space, not kissing, not yet, but closer than they've ever been.
"Hey," Jimin whispers.
"Hey."
"I'm still scared."
"Me too."
"Good."
Jeongguk laughs, quiet and warm. "Good?"
"Good," Jimin repeats. "Because if you weren't scared, I'd think you weren't paying attention."
"I'm paying attention."
"I know." Jimin pulls back just enough to look at him. His smile is small, fragile, real. "That's why I'm still here."
The sun finishes setting. The room grows dim. Neither of them moves to turn on the lights.
"Hey," Jeongguk says.
"Hey."
"I'm glad we finally talked about it."
Jimin leans his head against Jeongguk's shoulder. "Me too."
"I'm glad it's you."
Jimin is quiet for a moment. Then: "You said that before. In Sapporo. In the car."
"You remember?"
"I remember everything."
Jeongguk's chest aches in the best way.
"I meant it then," he says. "I mean it now."
Jimin lifts his head, just enough to look at him. The light is low, but Jeongguk can still see his face and the shape of him, the softness of him, the person he was born to love with his whole heart.
"I love you," Jimin says.
The words are simple. Honest. Unadorned.
Jeongguk's heart stops.
"I love you too," he says. And it's the easiest thing he's ever said.